Remember that Gandalf scene in “Lord of the Rings” where he fights the Balrog? The wizard throws down his staff screaming, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” and the monster falls down that huge ravine. That’s my secret wish for what the receptionist should do at the gym entrance because this zoo is getting ridiculous.
There are three things I hate about the gym besides the unfortunate fact that exercising indoors is boring. The first is naked dudes in the changing room who admire themselves. Can’t you get naked at home and inspect your body there? That’s what I do. The second is oafs on treadmills set at speed 1 watching movies. Why are you here? This isn’t a workout. Go home and watch a movie and look at your weird body. The third and worst is the January Gym. Let me explain.
Sometime late in December, maybe the day after Christmas, maybe New Year’s Eve, people gather around and complain how much they ate over the past month. This is especially true in cold-weather places since a strategic sweater can hide your layers of fat. I’ve done bad things to my body, people say. But come January (read: after a few more days of awesome gluttony) I’m going to change my life. It’s my New Year’s resolution. I’m going to exercise six days a week. Get a six pack by March. Cut out carbs after noon. Look like a Greek god. And it all starts at the gym.
Armed with these nice delusions, people descend upon the gym in January, which swells like an expat at Oktoberfest. The machines are full. There’s a 15-minute wait for a shower. You’re fighting for a treadmill with one of those severe-looking I’m-wearing-headphones-and-a-sports-bra-and-nothing-else-but-don’t-you-dare-look-at-me running cyborgs as some oaf giggles at a hilarious joke on the TV show they’re watching during their slow-motion workout. Even machines that are universally reviled—like the rowing machine—have some guy pulling it with all his might, and when he sustains the inevitable back injury, he’s replaced by another guy doing the same.
If you go to the weight machines, it’s worse. January, besides being the month of resolutions, is also the month of personal trainers, who circle the workout area like Dementors yelling about squats and lunges and burpees and things that go push-up in the night. The trainers normally work with two types of people: a) fat people who I applaud for getting back into it and need some help from a trainer. That’s good! b) really fit guys with no need for a trainer spending their time between sets complaining about their bodies. I’m adding them to the hate list. Look, if you have a six pack, just STFU and just enjoy the riches bestowed upon you from our superficial society, instead of complaining about how fat that skinless turkey breast made you. The situation reminds me of a dinner I went to where a pretty girl was complaining about how she ate a ton but couldn’t gain weight and how her breasts were too big for her body. Watching the expressions of the other girls at the table, I made a silent 30-second countdown in my head and waited for the explosion to occur, and oh boy, did it.
February 9th. The ninth of February. Mark it on your calendar. That is the date when the gym will become civilized again. At this point, New Year’s resolutions are already wavering, but the oncoming Chinese New Year will fully break them and they’ll scamper to the recesses of your mind, only to be nursed back to health by the end of next December. The gym will feel light, easy and relaxed. Sure, you’ll still see meatheads and running cyborgs and People Who Wear Yoga Pants but if you get there at the right time it will just be you, techno music and rows of empty elliptical trainers.
