A well-heeled patron of the gym that I am an (in)frequent member of, had his picture splashed over Monday’s daily supplement. There he was, flashing his pearlies, arm-in-arm wth wifey dearest, bringing in his birthday in style. In style, it certainly must have been, as a host of tinseltown celebs, P3 regulars and the ubiquitous blowing-kisses-at-the-camera PYTs had all decided to pop in to wish the birthday boy (man?) as he ushered in his 40th Bday.
Which brought me to think of the different types of people I get to see sweating it out at the gym. Chances are – this list is not comprehensive (thanks to a fluctuating-in-regularity gym-goer ). Any guesses who?
So you have the sweaty and smelly guy. He is averse to showering on the days he works out (and he works out six times a week – so you do the Math). To make matters worse, he’s never heard of a deodorant stick – he hops around you, pumping iron, assailing your sense of smell, increasing your agony by leaps and bounds. He is the sole reason why so many people in his proximity take recourse to botox – they wrinkle their noses and furrow their foreheads so when he’s around. See him – and you should run a mile away, or burrow deep into the ground, the gym-towel tightly wrapped around your nose.
Next is the Screamer. Now, people have been known to let out a grunt or an occasional groan when they are in the midst of a heavy-duty workout. Fair enough. Not this one – he lets out a loud yelp, startling everyone in the vicinity of half a mile. Five seconds later, people exchange amused glances and resume their interrupted workout. A screech follows, a mini-scream that would do a banshee proud, and then several squeals that would have no doubt been helpful in attracting a drove of pigs into a celebratory mating ritual. This guy rubbishes anyone who extols the virtue of silence. Keep some cotton swabs ready if you happen to be near him, unless you enjoy the idea of jumping out of your skin every now and then.
Then there is the mobile maniac. This one’s perfected the art of multi-tasking. Eyes trained on the speed, his feet move effortlessly on the cross-trainer, while his / her fingers hammer away at a much-used mobile phone. Tiny giggles also make their way to your ears, when he / she reads a particularly funny sms. They can also, during the midst of this all, receive a phone call and jabber away, without any trace of a pant or a huff entering into their voices. And to think that my speech becomes wobbly if I happen to walk my jelly thighs above a speed 6. Shame on me!
You have also the shine sisters. Their favorite tree is a Christmas tree. Which explains their fascination for dolling / dressing up as one. Early morning, late evening, night time – whatever time they enter the gym premises, they shine, glimmer, gleam, twinkle. Glossy lipped, freshly-straightened, neatly combed back or sleekly-ponytailed hair, they are often seen in gold or spangled silver leotards. Each time they turn in the bright gym lights, you wince, your eyes hurting from the riot of sparkling colors that they call their gymwear. If not daintily sipping cupfuls of water, they are found staring at themselves in any shiny (what else) surface that catches their eyes. Often the most amusing sorts, they are also sometimes blessed with high-pitched, unnatural voices. Which adds to their charm most definitely…
Who can forget the buxom babe. She is sometimes also referred to as the Cleavage Queen. Her mantra in clothing is – ‘Less is more.’ She strides into the gym, aware that all eyes are upon her, straining to see what she’s worn for the day. And she sure doesn’t disappoint you – her low cut, heaving tank top, leaving nothing to the imagination, causing many a guy to suddenly develop an interest in jogging on the treadmill next to hers. After twenty minutes or so of shimmying her derriere and shaking her booty, she hops off, leaving the guys guessing what she’d do next. She sashays over to the yoga mat – for her calisthenics – titillating the spectators with her ample-skin showing squats-lunges-sit-ups-crunches-jumping-jacks routine. Next, she straddles the exercycle, riding it suggestively, causing men to goggle and women to roll their eyes in derision. A collective sigh escapes when she exits the gym after her show, oops I mean workout, leaving behind a trail of overpowering perfume and a group of love-lorn guys / disdainful girls.
The fashion-challenged – this guy screams ‘Look at Me,’ and would love to be called ‘Has It.’ But what sounds good as a tag line for lycra, is completely washed and wasted on him. What else can explain the bandanna over his overly gelled hair, sheer black vest (showing his rudimentary breasts), micro-shorts that can pass off as briefs, the flaming red pair of Nikes he’s donned and the cologne that would best be suited for spritzing as a car fragrance. He passes you with a breezy smile, a faithful iPod in his left hand, a pair of silver gloves clutched in his hand. You blink rapidly, mentally giving him an A for his confidence. Not a bad sort this one – if you discount his self-proclaimed (lack of) style statement.
The I’m-my-own-instructor (and yours too) is another specimen you meet. No matter how fast you run on the treadmill, he can outrun you. No matter how heavy your weights are, he can add another 5 kgs and lift them nonchalantly. You flex your (budding) muscles, he will stand next to you, flaunting his bulging, rippling, sinewy muscles in your face. Each time he crosses you, you suck in your breath (curse the Tandoori chicken you washed down with beer the night before), and exhale only when he is well out of sight. Whatever your workout regime is, he can do better. And he makes no bones about letting you know. So there starts the free, unwarranted advice hour.
Sample this - 'Uh-huh-pick-it-this-way' (free demonstration)
'Nope, you getting it all wrong, man – hold it like this' (another demonstration)
'That protein shake is no good, you should drink this' (rattles off name) - you get the drift, don’t you.
Best avoided, this dude can cause you some serious ego issues. Besides of course, a severely saturated pair of ears.
Then there is the Perfume factory, doused in an entire bottle of Davidoff (the cologne I love to hate). He / she bathes in perfume, and even before they enter, their cologne has long entered, making people a) gag and drop with dizziness b) sneeze uncontrollably c) hold their breaths for 10 seconds or so d) bring out their tiny jar of coffee beans concealed in their palm for precisely this very moment or e) bolt for the nearest spot under the fan / next to the air con duct and gulp / suck in mouthfuls of unadulterated air. Having just freshly emerged from a shower in Chanel, they saunter into the gym, completely oblivious to the fact that others are poking fun at their social ignorance and over-indulgence. Why must they marinate in their perfume, is everyone’s favorite question…
There is that category – the Hopeless – no matter how much they run, panting to catch their breaths, or slogging it out on the floor, they fail to even lose an inch. They blame their metabolism rate, and have tried every trick in the book – fasting, crash diets, Chinese tea, you name it. They huff and puff everyday, smile sadly at their reflection and when everything fails, they step out of the gym after their workout and out of sheer misery, reach out for that double chocochip brownie, dipped in sinful chocolate. Nuff said.
Another breed are the eternally optimistic. Small, thin frame notwithstanding, they are hell-bent upon lifting the heaviest weights. Sweat drops drip freely from their exhausted faces, their arms tremble, their eyes glaze, they grit their teeth, and gasp and puff while lifting the said weights. Anxious about safety regulations gym instructors advise them to take it easy, but these sorts are on a personal proving-to-all mission, and after collapsing for a five-minute tongue-lolling-out-wheezing interval, are at it again - hopeful that the next session would fare better...Some day...
There is the obnoxious sort - the suggestive starer – the one who makes you want to recall all your karate moves from secondary school. He stares lasciviously, salivating rapidly, licking his lips and smacking them at the sight of any bare skin. You can almost see the drool near his lips. Women glare coldly at him, but he’s a thick-skinned wretch, and goes on to hum yet another suggestive song, all the while making slobbering sounds. He receives another warning from the gym management, and is sober – but only till he sees the next woman in shorts. And then he goes into yet another spasm of pleasure. The only exercise he probably does is when he gets back home – with his right hand. Women would give their right hand to get him murdered – but knowing him, he would dribble drool over that hand first.
And lastly there is the Invisible Gym-goer, a category I belong to. They epitomize the blink-and-you’ll-miss-them breed. You see them enter the gym (once? Or twice a week? God knows!), walk reluctantly to the machines on display or pick the yoga mats half-heartedly. You turn to smile at them, and Voila! They are nowhere to be seen, making you scratch your head in puzzlement as to whether you actually saw them in the first place, or they were just an apparition from your vivid imagination. Some questions have no answers - this being one of them. Ask around about these types, and chances are that the others are equally clueless as you.
What other sorts do you bump into when you go for your workout? Care to share?
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