At the gym I attend, there’s this guy who “trains” a group of catty women. His session is comprised of him not having a plan and randomly picking things for them to do. They often include torso rotations with a wooden dowel, half lunges, and pull-up negatives accompanied by lots of chatter and exasperated expressions. It drives me fucking insane.
The women never stop talking before, during, or after exercising. As a general rule, if you’re talking during an exercise, then it isn’t a friggin’ exercise. No worthy physical adaptive stress is imparted during conversation.
I don’t know why I hate them so much. Maybe it’s because they have no respect for the sanctity of hard work? They talk about frivolous bullshit while I’m trying to press, snatch, or squat. There’s a reason I go and turn down the the volume on the TVs (that are inevitably airing Fox News) next to the squat rack when I get there; it’s not a fucking break room, it’s a gym.
Maybe I hate them because they are fooled by this guy whose only qualification is wearing a collared shirt and his only preparation is thumbing his butt hole before arriving. It seems like he licks his
finger thumb, holds it to the breeze, and nonchalantly gauges the windspeed before randomly picking out a fitness destination for his clients. There’s no objective, no tact, no substance.
But they feel the burn. The women walk around in their designer workout clothes and hold their water bottles between their thumbs and first two fingers. After all, they went to the gym today. They can go home satisfied and turn on Desperate Housewives (why are they so desperate?) followed by calling their sister to tell her how she saw another woman with the exact same shirt and pants combo that caused her to go back inside and change.
Ladies. Gentlemen. This is what we’re up against.