Musings at LA Fitness

            I guess I fit the criteria for a typical college girl.  I get weekly mani/pedis.  My collection of heels is entirely too big. I have an obsession with all things Marc Jacobs.  And if I could, I would spend hundreds, no thousands, of dollars at Sephora.  But there is one thing that distinguishes me from the stereotypical (and yes this is entirely a gender stereotype) girl.  I’m a gym rat.  Every morning, I wake up, put on my bright pink lifting gloves, prepare my post workout protein shake, and head to the gym to lift.  And when I say lift, I’m not talking about 5 lb weights.  I’m talking about lifting heavy especially for my 5 foot 2 inch frame.  

            So naturally, I spend lots of time at the gym.  I love it.  It’s where I feel most at home.  Most comfortable.  Most confident.  Despite the hundreds of hours I have spent in gyms, I’ve never taken the time to really stop and observe what is going on.  “People watch,” if you will.  So for about thirty minutes I decided to park myself at the seldom-used juice bar and just survey my surroundings.  And if there is one thing I have learned from this assignment, it’s that gyms are full of (ahem) “interesting” characters.

            A thin, middle-aged woman wearing tight black capris and a neon pink tank top happily walks on the treadmill.  How do I know she’s happy?  She’s actually smiling.  (I kid you not, the entire time I watched her she was smiling, with the occasional giggle thrown in as well.)  Her large, red “Beats by Dre” headphones seem overwhelming to her tiny frame but impeccably match her boisterous personality. She is on the last treadmill in a line of about thirty, perfectly positioned to eagerly wave hello to everyone she knows who enters the gym.  (And she literally knows everyone).  Her combination of animated, almost manic, hand gestures and perky “Gooooood mornings!” keep me entertained for quite awhile. 

            I shift my attention to the exercise mat where an older African American man with a long, grey scraggly beard is stretching.  Wearing a pair of grey sweat pants, which have been scrappily cut off at the knee, a matching grey sweater, and calf high tube socks, he looks like he just stepped out of an 80s jazzercise class.  Even more interesting is that he dons a pair of goggles strapped tightly around his head (the kind you wear to protect your eyes when playing a contact sport).  For awhile, I wonder why someone would possibly need a pair of goggles at the gym, but as I continue to observe him, the reason becomes evident.  He appears to be practicing some sort of combination of yoga and gymnastics.  Or maybe it’s martial arts.  He lays on his back, sucks in a deep breath and with a loud exhale pushes his hands into the ground and shoots his long legs back over his head.  Then he spreads his legs wide (wider than I would suspect anyone over the age of 50 would be able to) and grabs hold of the outer edges of his feet and rocks back and forth from side to side, letting out loud grunts every so often.  After entertaining this pose for a few minutes he positions himself in the middle of the mat with his knees bent and his hands on the ground in front of him.  Then he begins taking short (and frankly ungraceful) hops off both his feet, attempting to maneuver a handstand.  He comes pretty damn close and on about his twentieth hop he loses balance and flips over onto his back, startling the blonde teenaged girl next to him who appears to be in full makeup, her hair in a perfectly curled ponytail with not a drop of sweat on her body. 

            At this point, I decide to examine the free weights area, pumping with copious amounts of testosterone from the notorious “meatheads.”  Today I focus in on a college-aged male with dirty blonde hair, pulled back away from his face with a sweatband.  He wears a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, the arm holes opening down to the bottom of his ribs, and a pair of bright pink board shorts.  Picking up a 90 lb barbell, he grunts his way through a set of 6 curls and carelessly drops the bar down in front of him. (Right next to the sign that clearly says: PLEASE DO NOT DROP OR SLAM WEIGHTS.)  He takes a few steps towards the full-length mirror that spans the length of the gym and proceeds to unabashedly lift up his shirt to reveal his oh-so-chiseled six-pack.  After admiring himself for a few seconds he glances around him to see if anyone else had taken advantage of this privileged viewing.  (I think I was the only one who indulged but for different reasons than he hoped).  He then steps back, flexing his oversized bicep, and continues his curls. This routine of lifting and admiring is repeated and I eventually tire of the monotony.

            At this point I realize I could observe (and probably write about) the gym and its unique cast of characters for hours.  But I decide I’ve had more than enough excitement and entertainment for the day, so I finish my coffee, put on my pink lifting gloves, and decide to see if I can give “Pink Shorts” a run for his money.