Poking around this site, some things become readily apparent: some of us train at home and I envy that; some of us train in hardcore dungeons and I respect that; some of us, however, train in places that make Curves look like Metroflex. Those people I comiserate with.
I want to know who amongst us trains in the most softcore gym. I, of course, vote for my FamilyFunPlex. Won’t tell you its name, but the initials are NYSC. Here, in no particular order, are my “gym”'s sins.
LOCATION AND CLIENTELE
Livingston is not your most diverse town. In fact, it makes Tel Aviv look like Iowa. There are two churches in my hometown; there are five bagel shops. Catch my drift? (And I’m Jewish, so yadda yadda…) Livingston is so Jewish that during our high school basketball games, other towns, by way of mocking us, would actually throw bagels at the team. Funny, but wrong.
So, the gym is full of yentas. 40 year old, whiny women in those shiny sweat suit things whose most demanding exercise of the day is hoisting the diamond ring their dentist husbands gave them. They enjoy cardio, small plastic weights, not reracking anything ever, and (my favorite) holding coffee clatches for 20 or 30 minutes directly in your line of sight while you’re trying to squat.
Calf machine? Nope. Power Rack? Nope. Lying Leg Curl? Nope.
BUT!! They do have two–TWO–always in use cable stations, and something called a “Grab-N-Go”. If you have not seen this monstrosity, then you weregood in a past life. It’s a big stell cage with a barbell suspended by two cables. When you “grab” the bar, you complete a circuit or something, and the bar “goes” freely up and down. When you let go, it stops moving.
In theory. In reality, the bar will move whenever the hell it feels like. The bar wants to be on your neck. If you step within two feet o this thing, it will hurt you. Soon, the Grab-N-Go will gain self-awareness and try to kill Sarah Conner.
There are, I guess, seven or eight personal trainers. One was seen struggling to complete one-ONE-chin up. Another looks like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, and regardless of who he’s training, is making them do lunges. Fat guy? Lunges. Skinny girl? Lunges. Double amputee? Lunges.
There are three in-shape personal trainers: one guy, two girls. The guy was once seen (by me, no heresay here) telling the SKINNIEST HUMAN BEING I HAVE EVER SEEN to do concentration curls. Then, he taught Slim the proper form for tricep kickbacks. Nice work.
Thankfully, the two girls know what they’re doing. One does fitness competitions, the other told me about this website. Both have, on separate occasions, openly mocked me for using too light a weight or not paying attention when changing the pin on a cable machine and getting whonked in the head by the bar. So, respect.
-There is always a cleaning woman dusting everything. Because, you know…you wouldn’t want to get dirty or need a shower after working out.
-Backstreet Boys. Solo Timberlake. On the TV, so you can watch the videos. And, as we all know, nothing is more conducive to laser-like focus than Shakira’s ass.
-The poorly-staffed day care center with out locks on the doors, so Timmy can help you deadlift.
-Do you need to make a call? Come to my gym. Everyone has their cell phone. Of course, they’re probably on it, speaking AT THE TOP OF THEIR LUNGS right the fuck next to me.
-Ever want to see a guy using straps to bench press? C’mon by!
There’s more, but I’m gonna eat and go to my class and cry myself to sleep.
Top me: I dare you.