After vacation in February, I decided that being curled in the fetal position on my couch, cursing the American college system and my own bad luck probably wasn't going to make me feel better. With all the free time I had, being jobless, I figured not was as good a time as any to attempt to lose weight.
Almost a full Couch to 5K program and three months of calorie counting later, I'm down 15lbs, I've lost most cravings for bad food, and for the most part, I have more energy and feel all around healthier. It's hard to gauge progress when I have to wake up for work at 4.30am most days out of the week; it's difficult to tell the difference between "normal" human tired and "you're too fat" tired. I've even improved my outlook on life a little, and have found ways to brush off those who seek to stress me.
Except there are still people at the gym who annoy the shit out of me.
The Selective Wipers
Where I come from, people don't like coming into contact with strangers' bodily fluids. I thought the "wipe the machine off after you're done" rule was pretty much a given at gyms. Even if you weren't aware, once you see someone else do it, you should pick up the habit.
Yet there are still some people who absolutely don't. There are people who will leave a heart-shaped (or, in most cases, an amorphous shape that vaguely resembles a rotten watermelon) sweat-stain on the seat of a weights machine and walk away to get back on that elliptical for the 6th time that day.
WORSE, there are people who wipe the machines before they start working out, but not after they are done. What in the name of the protein smoothie god type of shit is this?! So wait, you need to wipe off *my* germs, but I'm okay to deal with yours? I'm sorry, do you have some sort of tell-tale angelic halo of cleanliness that we all should understand?
No. You have choices:
a) you wipe after
b) you wipe before and after
c) you wipe after
Stop looking at my treadmill. I have my cell phone up there to hide the time because if I keep checking how long I have left, I will lose desire. I'm not going to move my cell phone. I'm running. You can tell by the way I am breathing hard, moving my legs, and holding my arms.
That thing you're doing? Where you're holding the "heart rate monitor" handles (or, ahaha, the top of the machine) and speedwalking? That's not running. That's moving your legs haphazardly while gripping for dear life. If you have the notion to think about what I am doing up here, you're not working hard enough.
The Confused People With a Lot Of Shit
Most gyms provide lockers, even if you end up having to buy your own lock. (If you cannot afford a $7 combination lock, how are you paying for your gym membership?) Use it. Why are you bringing an entire bag of shit with you into the weight room? Why must it hang off the arm of your treadmill, perilously close to my kneecaps when I'm running on the machine adjacent to you? What do you have in there? What could you possibly need that must be carried in a bag RIGHT NOW?
Also, that bench there isn't for your water bottle, ipod, and keys. It's for people lifting weights.
It's a fitness bench, not a "Place To Rest Your Shit" bench. If you're afraid I'm going to drop a dumbbell on your iPhone should you leave it on the floor, find a better place. I have a suggestion!
The Mat Slapper
So you're on your mat, sweating, working hard, and someone decides they need to lay their mat beside yours to do the same. Sometimes there's no room, and they have no choice.
The proper way to invade someone's space (by choice or circumstance) is to gently lay the mat down as far away as possible.
It is not suggested you SLAM the mat on the ground, creating a dust-particle infused WHIRLWIND of air against me. That's distracting, and gross. All I can think about now is how whatever dirt was on the floor is now clinging to the fine patina of sweat all over my exposed arms and legs.
And, because I like all my lists to have at least five points ---
The Lady Sweating Curry Or Some Other Noxious Spice Out Her Pores
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST MOVE TO ANOTHER TREADMILL. I'M DYING.