Call of the Wild...
They come every January, in packs of two or three, until their numbers overwhelm the others that come here alone. They stalk the floor, sometimes with purpose, often without, flipping their flowing tails of hair, and communicating earnestly with the others in their pack. They advance to places they can walk together, making it impossible for the loners to walk, too. Who am I talking about? Why, none other than the “New Year Resolutioners” that descend on my gym every January.
The gym is a cyclical beast. January and February, the numbers swell and every treadmill and step-machine is filled, while previously empty aerobics classes are packed so tight that sardines have more room to move in their cans. There is never a good time to go to the gym, as it is always busy.
I try to stagger my times, but no matter—I cannot escape these perfectly coiffed minions of Hell. They come in their skinny midriff tank tops and pink velour pants with the waist band rolled down to show off their fake-n-bake tans and rhinestone belly-button rings. The hair is always pushed into a perfectly placed, yet perfectly messy ponytail. Their shoes are always new, and coordinate to both the pink AND rhinestones. They always have an Ipod strapped to their arms or waistbands, the white ear bud cords attempting to establish some sort of hierarchy and sense of belonging for those who are in the first few weeks of membership.
I hate these girls, or posers, if I may. I know their type-I see it every year. Eventually, the novelty of sweating wears thin, and they flake away like peeling paint, leaving the gym to those of us who have established a long-term relationship with our favorite machines, favorite instructors, and favorite personal trainers. Those of us who come regularly don’t match our workout clothes, nor do we have bottles of water perpetually attached to our right hands. The music we listen to comes from the in-house stereo being used for whatever class is in session, as we don’t really care that we have the “perfect” song on our Mp3 player in order to focus on that burn achieved from the 5lb arm weights that were picked up and then quickly discarded in favor of the 1lb weights, which were then discarded for a healthy swig of water from the bottle, because honestly, picking up those weights was QUITE A WORKOUT.
The long-timers—we are a patient bunch. We will wait you out while you sit on a machine for 10 minutes reading a magazine between sets of reps. We will use another machine while you struggle to figure out the keypad on the machine we would use if you weren’t on it. We’ll give you time to fail at the advanced step-class, because you are a beginner and you don’t know the routines, nor do you have the stamina to last in a 45 minute class. We know that you will be gone soon. Your resolutions will soon be forgotten, and we can go back to working out in peace, far from your perfume and sparkles.
After all, we are here to sweat.
The gym is a cyclical beast. January and February, the numbers swell and every treadmill and step-machine is filled, while previously empty aerobics classes are packed so tight that sardines have more room to move in their cans. There is never a good time to go to the gym, as it is always busy.
I try to stagger my times, but no matter—I cannot escape these perfectly coiffed minions of Hell. They come in their skinny midriff tank tops and pink velour pants with the waist band rolled down to show off their fake-n-bake tans and rhinestone belly-button rings. The hair is always pushed into a perfectly placed, yet perfectly messy ponytail. Their shoes are always new, and coordinate to both the pink AND rhinestones. They always have an Ipod strapped to their arms or waistbands, the white ear bud cords attempting to establish some sort of hierarchy and sense of belonging for those who are in the first few weeks of membership.
I hate these girls, or posers, if I may. I know their type-I see it every year. Eventually, the novelty of sweating wears thin, and they flake away like peeling paint, leaving the gym to those of us who have established a long-term relationship with our favorite machines, favorite instructors, and favorite personal trainers. Those of us who come regularly don’t match our workout clothes, nor do we have bottles of water perpetually attached to our right hands. The music we listen to comes from the in-house stereo being used for whatever class is in session, as we don’t really care that we have the “perfect” song on our Mp3 player in order to focus on that burn achieved from the 5lb arm weights that were picked up and then quickly discarded in favor of the 1lb weights, which were then discarded for a healthy swig of water from the bottle, because honestly, picking up those weights was QUITE A WORKOUT.
The long-timers—we are a patient bunch. We will wait you out while you sit on a machine for 10 minutes reading a magazine between sets of reps. We will use another machine while you struggle to figure out the keypad on the machine we would use if you weren’t on it. We’ll give you time to fail at the advanced step-class, because you are a beginner and you don’t know the routines, nor do you have the stamina to last in a 45 minute class. We know that you will be gone soon. Your resolutions will soon be forgotten, and we can go back to working out in peace, far from your perfume and sparkles.
After all, we are here to sweat.
posted by ~ruthie @ 11:46 AM
1 Comments:
At 5:39 PM,
Tee/Tracy said…
I LOVED this post! I can't imagine how annoying it is to have these women come to YOUR gym. Hee hee... Keep up the good work, :)
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