I got home from the YMCA last night having just witnessed a man taking a couple of squirts out of the instant hand sanitizer device mounted on the wall and rubbing them all over his skull. Yeah you read that right – his skull. He didn’t do this once, but actually twice. Which wins him a place in my personal mental carnival of bizarre gym-goers.
I think I’ll call him “Purell-head Man”.
There are quite a few of them at this point…
“H1N1 Woman”: This is the woman who worked beside me on one of the Elliptical machines, staring in mute horror at the news when they were first breaking the story of the H1N1 (swine flu) virus. As she began shaking her head and muttering to herself, I made an effort to gently reassure her…
Me: “Ma’am… last year the media swore we’d all die of bird flu, the year before that it was sars. Honestly – when you’re frightened, you tune in and they make money. It’s good business for them to frighten you. But really, I don’t think you need be any more concerned about this swine flu thing than the regular seasonal flu.”
H1N1: “No, no you don’t understand – this is much worse… much much worse!”
I shook my head and made no further attempts to quell her fears. Though I am happy to report that five months later she’s still alive and well and going to the gym – which is good, because H1N1 seems like a nice lady.
Which brings me to…
“Hoagie-in-the-sun Man”: Sadly this one probably needs no detailed explanation, but I’ll elaborate anyway for the uninitiated. As I was working out on my favorite machine; a man in dirty jeans hopped on the machine beside me and began working out with great enthusiasm. Huffing, puffing and sweating big drops that fell profusely all over himself and the machine. I began to catch whiffs of what can best be described as the odor that would result from a mayonnaise rich hoagie left to spoil in direct sunlight for a good two to three days.
Now I’m not a germaphobe honestly, I’m aware that people sweat when they work out at the gym. But quite frankly if you are reasonably clean beneath that sweat you don’t smell all that bad. A stench as powerful as Hoagie’s had to be a week minimum in the making.
As it began overwhelming me in waves, I gave up and left.
Next we have...
“Mr. Boob-Stare”: Again this one’s probably a no brainer, but Boob Stare is unique in that he appears to be about 85 years old, of Asian heritage, and his manner of boob watching is one I’ve never encountered before. He stands roughly five feet from the machine I’m working on and very slowly does squats – up and down – all the while engaging in very deep breathing exercises and staring fixedly at my chest.
Granted, I’m a generously proportioned woman so I have no doubt my chest does interesting things as I’m bouncing up and down on a cross trainer, even with a sports bra.
Teddi pointed out to me that mine might be the biggest boobs he’s ever had a chance to study in detail. And my coworker put it simply by saying “Carolyn, you’re a giver.”
Yep – that’s me… giver of bouncy boobs to old guys. *sigh*
Up next…
“Older-Guy-in-Insanely-Good-Shape”: I realize my names for these people aren’t the most creative, but these are the impressions they give. Insane Shape looks like he’s somewhere in his 60’s and he can power walk at a speed most people can’t keep up with while running. I mean this guy is fast. And he doesn’t do it for ten or fifteen minutes, he goes for about an hour – all the while carrying on pleasant conversations with the folks around him. I’m fond of Insane Shape, he seems like he’d be fun to talk to. But being shy I merely observe him from a distance with a certain envy both for his fitness and his outgoing personality.
And then…
“George Clinton”: Of Parliament Funk. He works at my gym. Okay not really, but a guy does who looks a lot like him, minus the multi colored braids. Outgoing, gregarious, friendly and funny – I watched him hang out with, help and talk to people for months before finally working up the nerve to say hello and introduce myself.
So now I know that George’s real name is Dino. For someone as shy as me, that’s real progress.
I guess that brings me to me…
“Shy-Girl-Who-Seems-to-be-Talking-to-Herself”: For one thing I rarely speak to anyone, and honestly I should. These folks aren’t body beautiful muscle-heads, they’re YMCA members like me. In baggy sweat clothes, out there after work, trying to make positive changes in their lives. They aren’t scary and with the exception of Hoagie they’re not smelly either. They’re just normal people. But I’m like an island of one on my machines, perpetually plugged into my MP3 player and… when I noticed someone giving me a puzzled look tonight from the machine across the way, I finally realized that I’m lip synching along with whatever I’m listening to.
To the people who cannot hear what I’m hearing, I can only imagine how nuts that looks…
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