The Gym Gets A Little Bro-fessional

Seeing how this past week has pretty much been the 4 Horsemen of the Winter Apocalypse, the beach and warmer weather has been on everyone’s minds. So, since running outside is clearly not an option, I’ve been going to the gym. Even though I consider myself an adult (by age, not by action) the gym still reminds me of being in middle school. Each middle school stereotype has an equivalent group in the gym. The meat heads are the cool kids, the spin classes and yoga classes are the smart kids, and the cheerleaders are the girls on the machines. Probably a weird representation but it makes sense to me and this is my blog post. For the most part, everyone keeps to themselves or their workout partners. I have a few friends that I’ll reluctantly ask to spot me but I feel like they’re laughing inside like “You need a spot? Do you even lift bro?”

Yes I lift, that’s why I’m here “BRO,” but seriously, everyone for the most part is very nice and courteous. However, every now and then you’ll run into one of “those guys.” Everyone reading this, who has ever been to a gym can picture “that guy” right now in their head. "That guy" never re-racks his weights, sings and raps to his music out loud in-between grunts and moans he expels with each rep, and spends more time on his phone than lifting while sitting on a bench or machine.

From the time I got to they gym and stretched, DJ Broseph, (we’ll call him) wearing obnoxiously branded Abercrombie sweatpants, and cut away tshirt that might as well have been made of string, enough product in his hair to stop a bullet, and of course, fingerless gloves to protect his hands from totally un-brolike calluses, had approached three girls for their number. I turned my music down to listen after the first, because I didn’t believe it as he approached the second.

It was the same line with each girl. “Hey, what’s up beautiful, you from around here?" I had to give him props for continuing to charge onward after being shot down. I think the only reason he quit was because all the girls left the free weight area. Even the guys were giving him an unusually wide berth. Usually, I can tell what muscle group people are working out, because they stick to a pretty similar routine, especially when lifting heavy weights. DJ Broseph, however, was in no such routine. He was making his way around the entire gym, maxing out on every machine and every exercise and letting everyone know he was not only listening to some serious rap music, but that each of his reps demanded a very loud groan.

I hadn’t even made eye contact with Broseph and I still felt like I was in 6th grade trying to dodge Dakota Cunningham who would bully everyone at recess and steal their Nerf football, or something like that, it's not important. I looked around for the teacher i.e. a staff member to do something, but then I remembered, this was a public gym and poor Broseph was just getting his pump on. Who was I to judge him or how he worked out. It made me think, why was I even here?

Maybe its because in the last 24 hours, I've single handedly eaten one and one half 14 inch, two topping, deep crust Papa John's pizzas. Maybe it's because I've got three generations of heart disease on deck and I don't like the fact that on my walk to the gym I sweat out pure garlic butter dipping sauce and a whole pepperoni. Maybe I'm at the gym because even after my first "feeding" of eight slices, I stopped only because I wanted to have some for later, and NOT because I was full, or, maybe I was just there because I want to continue with my mature eating habits, and in some demented mathematical formula I've created in my head, I figure that as long as I go the gym, not necessarily do anything, but just go, then I can eat whatever I want without any consequences. "Add ten thousand, carry the two... yea, that sounds about right."

So even if you are obnoxiously loud at the gym, scare away all the talent and leave a mess at every station, at least you’re there, right? I can’t say anything to DJ Broseph other than “Good job man….GOOD JOB MA..oh yeah, his music is too loud, he can’t hear me."