Gyms: there are no words

As a writer, I’ve grown increasingly concerned about the status of the written word. I will save my government conspiracy theories for another day and another post (get out of my Amazon Wish List, Obama), but suffice is to say that we should all be quite alarmed by the downward trajectory of written communication through the ages.

First, email replaced letters.

Then instant messaging replaced email.

Then texting replaced instant messaging.

Then acronyms and abbreviations replaced actual words.

Then emojis came along and eliminated the need for alphanumeric characters.

And now—ugh—there is this:

Yes, people have actually come up with a way to communicate via rapid-fire selfie exchange. This is a crisis situation, folks. At this rate, it won’t be long before the alphabet itself ceases to exist, and novels will begin to resemble extremely complicated sets of Ikea instructions.

And thus, human civilization will come full circle.

But, as I’ve learned from working in the technology sector, there’s no sense in fighting innovation. You can cling to your fancy stationary and your luxury fountain pen all you want, but it’s only a matter of time before those Snapchatting teenagers are running the world. And since they are basically illiterate, you can plan on a total phase-out of complete sentences by 2030.

Another thing I’ve learned from my tenure in the tech field is that there’s one language that will never go away: the language of numbers. Yes, your high school calculus teacher was right about one thing (and lord knows it wasn’t acceptable combinations of plaids): math truly is the universal language.

So, as a preemptive move to preserve my relevancy as a human being, I’ve started challenging myself to express my thoughts in a more graphic fashion. And by graphic, I literally mean graphs. So instead of banging out a long-winded narrative of my rants and raves as a gym patron, I condensed all of my commentary into a series of graphical representations. Enjoy.

One night stand

Most hotels nowadays have some sort of fitness facility. They range in size from “a rickety treadmill and two partially inflated exercise balls” to “a handful of various cardio machines and a set of mismatched free weights” to “a miniature health club with several machines, a spa and a trainer named Rick.”

For the past couple of months, I have been staying at a hotel with an above-average exercise room. There are no deep-tissue massages available post-workout, but as far as I can tell, all of the equipment was manufactured sometime in the last decade. There are three treadmills, two elliptical machines, a recumbent bike, a set of weights and medicine balls, and a rack of clean sweat towels (bonus!).

I’m staying in the middle of a very urban area, which means there aren’t many outdoor running options. (Unless your idea of a workout involves dodging the unsavory characters lurking in city bus stops.) As such, I have become somewhat of an early morning fixture in the hotel gym.

It’s not a bad place to get in a workout, especially if, like most hotel guests, you’re only in town for a couple of nights. The problem for extended-stayers like myself is that everyone else walks through the door knowing that they are probably not going to see you—or anyone else in there—ever again.

It’s kind of like going out in a city where nobody knows you—for one night, you can act like a total ass without having to worry about showing up in your boss’s Facebook feed the next morning. In a hotel gym, you can act like a total ass without having to worry about running into the stranger on the other treadmill at next week’s kickboxing orientation.

Once gym etiquette goes out the window, it’s total anarchy. In this dog-eat-dog, every-man-for-himself kind of atmosphere, you better snag the equipment you want the moment you see it open.

The way to do this, apparently, is to wipe your sweaty head with a fresh towel and then drape said towel over the piece(s) of equipment you wish to use later. That way, you can hop on the treadmill for another 30 minutes knowing that the 25-pound dumbbells will be waiting for you whenever you’re ready.

While you’re at it, it’s probably a good idea to reserve one of the two benches in the room using another rag soaked in your own perspiration—you know, just in case someone else is thinking about using it sometime in the next half-hour.

Oh, and heaven forbid that you screw up your circuit due to lack of floor space for your burpees. You should definitely go ahead and dibs some real estate using a stretching mat topped with—you guessed it—another damp sweat towel.

When you see another guest circling around “your” bench with a confused look on her face, it’s best to just stare straight ahead and pretend not to notice. She’ll go away eventually. And if she doesn’t, you can always play dumb. (“Oh, oops! I didn’t mean to leave that towel there. Silly me!”)

If she calls you a jerk and storms off, who cares? You’re checking out in 45 minutes, and you don’t plan on returning anytime soon.

Before you leave, though, you should stop by the front desk and lick every apple in the dish of complimentary fruit—just in case your plans change and you end up coming back later.

Welcome to the real world (now get yourself some real pants)

I will never forget the day I received my team-issued sweats from my college equipment room.

They were thick and fuzzy and perfect in every way. I loved them.

As a freshman, my sweats didn’t get a whole lot of use, mostly due to the fact that I actually cared about my appearance that year. I spent a considerable amount time picking out outfits and fixing my hair before class. When it became apparent that I was never going to be asked out on a date—because “dating,” in the traditional sense, is the furthest thing from the minds of freshman boys (at least that's what I told myself, although it is entirely possible that I'm just not that attractive)—I dramatically reduced the effort I put into looking cute. My ensemble of choice gradually devolved into jeans and nice T-shirts, then jeans and grungy T-shirts, and finally, grungy sweats and grungy T-shirts.

I would estimate that I wore workout clothes to approximately 80 percent of my class sessions over the course of my college career. I justified my fashion choices with the fact that (a) I was always rushing from class to practice and vice-versa, and (b) I was saving money on laundry by not changing clothes multiple times a day. In terms of pure economic efficiency, I was golden.

The problem is, my clothing habits greatly compromised my perspective on what is and is not appropriate attire in a professional setting. So when I graduated and landed my first grown-up job, I was shocked to learn that tights and hoodies did not meet the standards set forth by the company dress code.

So, for the past several months, I have endured long hours in unforgiving dress pants and itchy blouses. When I get home, I can’t wait to change into gym clothes. Also, I’m pretty sure I now understand what spawned the idea for the tuxedo T-shirt.

I have somehow managed not to mix my work wardrobe with my workout wardrobe. (Interesting, isn’t it, that “work” forms the first half of the compound word “workout?” Just saying.)

The other day, however, I was faced with a dilemma. I was asked to attend an impromptu meeting at a company where I work as a freelancer. I agreed, knowing full well that I would have to go straight from the office to track practice.

Since I was running with the team that day, I put on my tights, T-shirt and half-zip pullover—just like I would any other day.

On my way out the door, I looked in the mirror. What I saw wasn’t exactly the picture of professionalism.

Oh well, I’ll just explain that I’m on my way to practice. They’ll understand.

But as I reached for the doorknob, I started having second thoughts.

I don’t want to embarrass myself, or my boss. But what, exactly, is so embarrassing about exercising? I mean, if it’s acceptable for adults to wear overalls in public—seriously, I saw a full-grown man in a pair of bibs at Walmart last week—then why can’t I wear running gear to a quick employee powwow?

I hemmed and hawed over what to do for a good 30 seconds before finally coming up with a compromise. I would wear real pants over my running pants and then do a quick-change in the car before practice. Problem solved.

By the time I arrived at the office, my legs were sweating profusely, and the odd sensation of wearing double layers made my gait stiff and rigid, like I really needed to go to the bathroom but was trying to hold it in.

This must be what it feels like to wear Spanx on a daily basis. Christ, I’d rather just do a few lunges and some sit-ups!

Suddenly, I felt incredibly guilty about all of the times I dissed Kirstie Alley for lying about being a size 6. Having to wear spandex compression layers underneath every outfit is punishment enough for her blatant dishonesty.

I powered through the meeting, resisting the urge to rip off my pants right then and there. I knew for certain that such an outburst would definitely embarrass my boss, and as a result I would definitely get fired.

When the meeting was finally over, I sped over to the track and grabbed the closest parking spot I could find.

I immediately recognized a huge problem standing in the way of my execution of The Plan. School had just gotten out, and as such, the parking lot was crawling with loud, gossip-fed pre-adults (a.k.a. teenagers).

Judgment and scandal are the cornerstones of the American high school experience, and nothing feeds the 24-hour teenage rumor mill better than whispers about the inappropriate actions of a coach.

All it would take is one little cellphone video shot from an incriminating angle, and boom—my name might as well be Geraldine Sandusky.

So, keeping my back straight and my eyes forward, I slowly unzipped my pants and slipped them off. Then, hit with a momentary stroke of brilliance, I put on a sweatshirt, then, acting as if I was having a sudden change of heart, removed both the sweatshirt and the blouse I was wearing over my running top.

Finally, I slipped my feet into my running shoes, got out of the car and tied my laces. Feeling clever and relieved, I smiled smugly as I jogged through the double doors into the gym.

In hindsight, I think my plan was more of a way for me to “stick it to the man” than it was a way for me to “save time.” In foresight, I will probably just give in to the man and start using a locker room like everyone else.

That's what she said

I’ve always been a fan of running in the summer rain, but when thunder and lightening show up to the party, I turn into a total scaredy cat.

So the other day, when the forecast called for an afternoon thunderstorm, I opted to employ my contingency plan: the elliptical.

I was about 20 minutes in to my plan B workout when…dun, dun, duunnnnnn…a mid-storm power outage killed the lights and all of the electronic exercise machines.

“Uhhhhhhh,” groaned the extremely tan, extremely wrinkly woman to my right.

Of course, this was the ONE time I didn’t have my iPod. So as the back-up generator kicked in and brought the machines—but not the lights or the TVs—back to life, I was forced to interact with Whiny Wendy.

Actually, I guess Whiny Juanita would be a more appropriate sarcastic nickname for this particular woman, since her accent would suggest some sort of Latino nationality.

“Oh jeeeeeeeeez,” she went on. “How loooooonggg is it gonna take them to feeeeeeex theeeees?”

I really wasn’t in the mood for conversation, so I tested out the “non-response method” for a few seconds. But I could feel her pleading eyes staring in my direction, and they weren’t going to move until I had supplied a satisfactory answer.

“Um, well, last time this happened I think it took, like, five minutes,” I finally replied.

“Fiiiiiiiiiiiivaah meeeeenutes? I neeeeeeedd my TeeeeeVeeeeeee when I workooouuuuutttt!”

“Me too,” I muttered under my breath.

I don’t know what it was about her voice that annoyed me so much, but I knew that if one more high pitched, overly annunciated word came out of her mouth, there was a 95 percent chance that I would involuntarily slap her in the face.

But at that very moment, I received a critical dose of comic relief from a pair of old-timers whose lifting workout had been interrupted by the blackout.

“Come on, Jerry, we don’t have all day. Martha’s aqua-cise class gets out in 20 minutes, and if she has to wait for me, I’ll be in big trouble,” said the first guy.

“Sorry Frank, I just can’t do it in the dark,” replied the second guy.

“That’s what she said!” quipped the first guy, with spot-on comedic timing.

I bit my lip as I tried in vain to suppress my giggles. But I just couldn’t help myself—it was the best-executed “that’s what she said” joke that I’d heard in a long time.

Guy number two, however, was not nearly as amused by his friend’s impeccable wit as I was.

“Frank, that was absolutely terrible,” he said in a tone that made him sound like a disappointed father. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

I almost piped up with something like, “Ah, relax Jerry. Don’t be such a buzzkill.”

But before I could say anything, the lights came back on and the latest episode of Sports Center was blasting into my headphones. I guess the sound on the built-in TVs automatically resets to maximum volume following a power outage.

Of course, not even that could drown out Juanita’s excessively emotional reaction to the electrical reboot.

“Well, thaaaaaaaannnk God,” she declared. “Eeeeett’s abouuuuuuuttt tiiiiimmee!”

Ay, Dios mio.

Inspiration part II: my nasal brainchild

So there I was, pounding out a seemingly endless treadmill workout with the world’s most fetid breather outputting a constant stream of hot, nasty stink approximately three feet to my left.

I tried in vain to distract myself from the foul odor I was forced to absorb with each inhalation. First, I cranked up the volume of my iPod and scrolled through my playlist in search of a tune that could carry me away from my miserable reality, if only for a few fleeting moments.

Somehow, listening to Kelly Clarkson belt out the lyrics, “Since you been gooonnnnnnnneee, I can breathe for the first time, I’m so moving ooonnnnnnnnn, yeaheeeeeeeyeahhhh,” just wasn’t as motivating as usual. (Come on, admit it—you love working out to Kelly Clarkson too.)

Using more force and energy than necessary, I dramatically ripped my headphone cord out of my iPod and shoved it into the plug-in for the built-in TV. My overly animated display of frustration did not affect my malodorous neighbor in the slightest. He was much too focused on an old episode of Gunsmoke that he had probably seen 26 times since it originally aired in 1964.

I furiously flipped through the channels in search of a program so fascinating that I would completely forget where I was and what I was smelling. You know, something like Cheaters or Sarah Palin’s Alaska.

I started with my old standby, the E! Channel: commercial. So I switched to my second favorite, TLC: commercial.

Growing increasingly angry and annoyed, I quickly moved through my list of choice cable networks: Food, Style, ESPN, Animal Planet—even The Weather Channel. And guess what I saw? Commercial, commercial, NASCAR, commercial, commercial.

Well, since rednecks wrecking cars—ahem, sorry, I mean “motor sports”—doesn’t really do it for me, I was forced to watch several minutes of television advertising.

I was in a very cynical mood, so every product I saw on the screen looked like the dumbest thing ever invented. I found myself thinking things like, “Tires? Who the crap buys tires? L-A-M-E!”

Then came an ad for a new DirecTV feature that allows viewers to pause their television programming in one room and resume watching it in a totally different room on a totally different TV. This service seemed to me, at first, totally ridiculous.

But as I rotated my head from Mr. Halitosis on my left, to the rows of empty treadmills on my right, to the partially completed distance on the display screen in front of me, I was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea for a more practical application of DirecTV technology.

What if I could pause my workout on my treadmill and resume running on a machine located several (dozen) feet away from Limburger-Cheese-Breath? I could call it DirecTM and market it to gyms and cardio equipment manufacturers all around the world! I could become a multi-jabillionaire and never have to work out next to anyone ever again because I’d have enough money to build my own private gym and stock it with as many treadmills as I wanted! And it would probably make me taller and tanner with less unwanted hair!

OK, sometimes my fantasies get out of hand when I’m suffering from the effects of excess oxygen consumption. But come on, look me dead in the eye and tell me you’ve never been in a situation where this might come in handy.

That’s what I thought. Contact me when you’re ready to invest.

The long and short of it

When I was in the dressing room at TJ Maxx the other day, I had a moment.

It wasn’t my usual kind—being reminded, in the unforgiving bright light and full-length mirror, of the eerily transparent quality of my skin. No, this was a brand-new feeling. A realization. An epiphany, if you will.

I was trying on running shorts—a generally innocuous shopping activity. Looking for new workout clothes is usually a refreshing change to the old seriously-don’t-they-make-jeans-designed-to-fit-an-actual-human-form routine.

But I haven’t shopped specifically for gym attire in quite some time, and as I pulled pair after pair of running shorts off of their hangers, slipped them on, and assessed their fashion quality by turning (several times) in front of the mirror, it suddenly hit me: Somewhere over the course of my nascent has-been career, I adopted the style preferences of an old-lady runner.

In high school, you had to roll your waistband at least three times if you wanted to hang out with the cool kids at track practice. That is, your shorts couldn’t cover more than 75 percent of your butt cheeks.

In college, it was all about the spandex. There was, like, some sort of unspoken belief that spandex actually made you faster—something about muscle compression and aerodynamics, I suppose. But really, all it ever did was crawl up your crack.

I used to consider big, poofy, swishy shorts to be part of a category of workout fashion that should not be found in the closet of any woman under the age of 45.

And yet there I was in a pair of loose, mid-thigh-length shorts—in bubblegum pink, no less—and I actually…liked them. I liked them so much, in fact, that I bought them.

I ran in them for the first time a few days ago, and all I could think for the entire 40 minutes was, “Why the crud have I been wasting so much time dealing with wedgies and inner-thigh chafage when I could have been wearing a slightly more ugly but way less uncomfortable garment like this?”

So yeah, I like my pink old-lady shorts. Maybe I’ll even spring for a purple crushed velour sweat suit. Maybe.

Say Yes to the Stress

After a long day at the office—because, you know, I have one of those now—there is no better way to relieve stress than heading to the gym for a little hardcore fitness action.

But I have to say, evening gym-goers are hella-intimidating compared to the mid-morning retiree crowd that I typically ran into back in my days of extended unemployment.

Everyone has just gotten off work, and by the time they make it to the gym, they’re tired, angry, starving and stressed. Their patience is wearing thin, which is why they generally employ a “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” style of working out.

So when you rack the bench press after your final set, they will not tolerate the seconds-long break you take before finally standing up and stripping your weights.

Also, no matter what machine they happen to be on, you can bet they are using it as a substitute stress ball. In my highly professional and scientifically-sound opinion, at least 95% of all user-inflicted damage to gym equipment occurs between the hours of 5 and 9 p.m.

The other day, for instance, I saw some guy throw—not just drop, but actually launch in a forward projectile motion—a 60-pound free weight dumbbell. As it smacked the ground and sent a palpable shockwave through the rubberized flooring, the guilty exerciser—a thirty-something behemoth with a shaved head and a dark, perfectly-manicured goatee—yelled, “Aaaaaaahhhhhhggggggggrrrrruuuuuuhhhhhhhmmmmmm!!!!”

I was the only other person in the room, which made for an instantly awkward situation. I couldn’t just pretend like nothing happened. This guy was obviously under extreme emotional duress.

I thought about casually walking up to him and saying something like, “Rough day at the office, huh?”

Ultimately, I decided that when it comes to stress-ridden ogres with goatees, any form of social interaction could be a real gamble. Instead, I hit him with an emotionally neutral look that said, “If you want to chuck weights around the room, go right ahead. I totally understand where you’re coming from, and I will make no attempt to stop you because you are uncommonly large and brutish.”

The abuse of gym equipment is not limited to weight stations—cardio machines are equally at risk.

On this same occasion, there was a middle-aged woman power-walking on the treadmill directly in front of the elliptical machine I was using. I peered over her shoulder and saw that she was watching an episode of Say Yes to the Dress.

I don’t know if it was a particularly intense episode or if she had other things on her mind, but either way, she was walking the hell out of that poor treadmill. She had the front handle bar in a white-knuckled death grip as she violently swiveled her hips from side to side and stomped her feet against the belt with each hostile step.

At first, I was totally annoyed. I had my iPod turned up as loud as it could go without causing serious hearing impairment, and I could still hear her cross-trainers slapping the platform. Eventually, though, I was able to sync my breathing pattern with the rhythm of her unnecessarily heavy foot strikes.

Our symbiotic exercise relationship lasted over thirty minutes. At the end, we were both more fit and less stressed. As an added bonus, I’m pretty sure Jennifer from New Jersey ended up finding her dream wedding gown.

The graph is always greener

It’s funny how life works. One day, you’re unemployed and drawing Excel graphs about your comically lame existence. Next thing you know, you have a job and you’re so pressed for time that you find yourself actually reading those Runner’s World articles about how to squeeze a quality workout into your half-hour lunch break.

(By the way, those articles are total crap. The people who write them are obviously unfamiliar with the concept of personal hygiene. Am I supposed to work the remainder of the afternoon smelling like stale tater tots and looking like Britney Spears while she was still dating Kevin Federline? I mean, hello, I’m going to need a little more than 30 minutes if I’m going to change clothes, work out, go home, shower, get dressed and get back to the office. Moist towelettes and Febreeze just don’t cut it for me, especially in the summer time.)

Anyway, now that I’m a functional member of society instead of a deadbeat burden to my family and my country, I’ve found that my newfound obligations as a semi-responsible employee have seriously encroached on my fitness activities—not to mention my reality TV habit and my nightly wine-tasting routine.

I felt it would be both timely and appropriate for me to provide you all with a graphical update that better reflects my new status as a gainfully employed adult. So here you go:

On your mark, get sweat, go

If you’re one of the five people who have been reading this blog regularly for the past few months—or one of the countless exercisers who have had the misfortune of using the treadmill next to mine—you know that I have a severe sweating problem.

I’ve been unavoidably flecking my excess perspiration on fellow gym-goers for years—ever since I came to the conclusion, following extensive cost-benefit analysis, that running on a treadmill is a better winter exercise option than the outdoor alternative. Running on the icy roads of rural Montana simply isn’t worth the risk of broken bones and/or frostbite.

I was unaware, however, that there was an actual term for this phenomenon. That is, until I came across an interesting link on one of my new favorite blog sites, runningisfunny.com.

After reading this article, I realized that my current protocol for dealing with my overactive sweat glands is all wrong. My mantra of “absorb, absorb, absorb” should be replaced by “deflect, deflect, deflect.” I should forgo sweat towels, portable fans and SweatWow products; instead, I should use my natural talent for sweat production to my advantage. In short, I should adopt the highly effective gym tactic known as “defensive sweating.”

Over the years, I have inadvertently tested the effectiveness of this maneuver on several occasions. My conclusion? It works.

I have found it to be particularly effective when combined with an Accessory Sweat-Flecking Mechanism, or ASFM. Examples include loose jewelry, ponytails, headphone cords or mullets.

Using the force of kinetic energy transferred from the motion of the runner, such mechanisms propel sweat droplets much farther than they would travel on their own.

For example, in an incident that took place at my local athletic club approximately six weeks ago, I unknowingly utilized the tactic of defensive sweating to force another exerciser off of the treadmill adjacent to mine. I knew he had probably vacated the area to avoid being sprinkled with my perspiration, which was flying off my iPod cord faster than nonsensical words fly out of Charlie Sheen’s mouth. At the time, I was left feeling more embarrassed than triumphant.

After reading the article, though, I’ve begun to see defensive sweating as an outlet for competitive urges I can no longer satisfy with weekly competition. It really is the perfect contest for me—no one beats me at sweating. No one.

Plus, leaving the gym feeling like a sweaty winner rather than a sweaty freak has done wonders for my self-esteem.

Don't forget the lyrics

I am so over winter.

I know it is exasperatingly passé to complain about the weather, but everyone else is doing it, so I will too: spring, you have really outdone yourself this year. I’m used to surprise hailstorms here and there, but you usually tease me with a few warm, sunny days in between. This year, you’ve been stingy even with your mild 50-degree days, and for that, you suck. Seriously.

OK, now that I’ve gotten that out, I’m going to move on to something even more exasperating. Endless Winter 2011 has forced me to spend more time exercising inside than I would prefer, but excess elliptical training is not the main source of my frustration.

As any routine gym user will tell you, indoor exercise can get really, really boring. Electronic devices like built-in TVs and iPods are effective sources of entertainment—to a point. But there comes a time in every regular gym-goer’s life when he or she simply cannot fathom the thought of sweating through one more episode of Dancing With the Stars.

Somewhere over the course of my many years as a runner living in the Arctic tundra of western Montana, I developed something I like to call Silent Gym Karaoke. As you might surmise from the title, this activity involves soundlessly mouthing the words to your favorite songs as you listen to them on your personal music device.

My favorite variation of this game was inspired by the popular television program Don’t Forget the Lyrics! It involves randomly pressing the pause button on my iPod and trying to correctly complete the next verse of whatever song I’m listening to.

My second favorite variation of this game involves pretending that I’m Steven Tyler and the gym is the stage at an Aerosmith concert. This version allows for a good deal of creativity with facial expressions and microphone stand stunts.

Here’s the problem: based on observable reactions from my peers, I get the feeling that my rock star miming routine is annoying—possibly even frightening—to the general population of gym users.

The other day, for example, I was cruising along on the elliptical to the beat of one of my favorite songs, “Fergalicious.” It is common knowledge that I know every single word to every single Fergie song, so I was (silently, of course) rocking pretty dang hard—especially when I got to the line about being “up in the gym just working on my fitness.” (Because hello—I was actually up in the gym working on my fitness.)

I was having such a good time that it took me awhile to notice the grumpy old dude—er, ill-tempered elderly gentleman—glaring at me from across the room. He stood motionless next to a stationary bike with one hand resting on the seat, as if to say, “I cannot possibly continue with my planned leisurely bike ride/AARP The Magazine reading session until you have ceased behaving like a complete idiot.”

The moment I realized his menacing gaze was directed at me, I closed my mouth and cast my eyes downward in embarrassment. I stared blankly at my machine’s electronic screen for roughly three minutes—enough time for Mr. Blister to start his workout and become distracted by a riveting exposé on denture adhesive.

When I was sure he was sufficiently occupied, I cranked the volume on my iPod, skipped ahead to “Glamorous”—another Fergie fave—and karaoked like a champ. And no, I did not forget the lyrics.

Muffin-(s)top

This is a humor blog, and its main objective is to be funny. We’ve shared a lot of laughs over the weeks (at least I hope I’m not the only one laughing), but today we need to address something very serious. And that something is muffin-top.

Imagine yourself in the following scenario: you are getting ready to go work out at your local exercise facility. You haven’t been to the gym in, um, awhile, and as a result, those cute stretch pants you bought last January (you know, right after you made that New Year’s resolution to go to the gym every day) are a bit tighter than you remember.

You decide to wear them anyway because (1) you still feel guilty about how much you spent on them, (2) you’ve convinced yourself that the snugger fit is helping “suck things in” and “smooth things out,” and (3) the lateral accent stripe is the EXACT same shade of pink as your new sports bra. And your iPod Nano. And your Nike cross trainers.

So far, so good. Here’s where things go south: you stop in front of the mirror on your way out the door, giving yourself the once-over to make sure you’ve secured any fly-away hairs and removed any Cheeto residue from your face. You are so distracted by the task of eliminating any VPL (visible panty line) that you completely overlook the much more serious situation occurring in and around your waistband region.

You enter the cardio area smiling, shirtless and completely oblivious to the fact that everyone else in the room suddenly looks like they just watched a Nicholas Cage movie. (Hint: their wide-eyed, jaws-on-the-floor stares have nothing to do with your impeccable color-coordination.)

The disturbing thing is that this little series of unfortunate events, unlike a Nick Cage film, is a nonfiction story that unfolded before my very own eyes just a few short days ago.

Look, I’m not trying to launch a smear campaign against muffin-top. We’ve all been there at one point or another, whether we enjoyed one too many Saturday morning Krispy Kremes or just unintentionally shrunk our pants in the dryer.

I’m simply pointing out the fact that, hey, they make pink shirts too. I understand that to some people, matching workout apparel is of the utmost importance.

I would argue that my mental and emotional wellbeing is of equal or perhaps greater importance. Either way, I think a t-shirt is a pretty fair compromise to this issue.

So before you decide to bare your midriff for all the world to see, stop. Look. Assess. Learn to recognize the signs of muffin-top, and keep an emergency stockpile of wardrobe alternatives to use when necessary. Together, we can eliminate VMT (visible muffin-top) and help make gyms safer and more comfortable for exercisers everywhere.

Exercise enterprise

In an economic climate where recent college graduates are more likely to end up living with their parents than living out their dreams (at least I hope I’m not the only one), we’ve got to make money any way we can. If you regularly visit a workout facility—you know, in between your part-time shifts at Orange Julius—just pick one of these ideas, put it into practice, and you’ll be showing Mom and Dad the tail end of a U-Haul in no time.

1.) You know the windshield cleaner guy who hangs out in the parking lots of major shopping and/or sports venues—the one who seems to appear out of nowhere to wipe down your car windows the moment you take the keys out of the ignition? Well, that dude has to be making some serious cash. How do I know this? Because he keeps showing up, and you keep giving him a dollar just to get him to go away. Now, imagine what could happen if you applied the same business model in a gym setting. All you would have to do is stand off to the side, rag and cleaning solution at the ready, and jump unsuspecting gym patrons the moment they step off of their machines. As they stand there, panting and dumbfounded, quickly clean the equipment and then turn to face them with an expectant look on your face. If they’re still not getting it, form your palm into the shape of a tiny cup and hold it out in front of you. Unsure of how else to extricate themselves from this uncomfortable situation, the still-surprised gym user will ultimately reach into their pocket to fish out a dollar bill, which they will slowly place into your handmade (ha ha) tip jar. Cha-ching.

2.) If you’ve ever been to Disneyland, memories of your magical tour through the Happiest Place on Earth probably include long lines, sweltering heat, and disgustingly overpriced food and beverages. You sweated to death for 55 minutes so you could ride the Indiana Jones Adventure, but you barely remember your wild trip through the cavernous bowels of the lost temple. What you do remember is purchasing a six-dollar bottle of water from the vendor conveniently placed just a few staggering steps from the exit. The price seems outrageous now, but when you were on the brink of heat stroke, you thought it was fairly reasonable. Think about it: fitness facilities are full of people who are overheated, tired and dehydrated. Do you think that sweat-drenched guy who just stepped off the corner treadmill would turn down the chance to purchase an ice-cold bottle of pure, quality H2O? Not a chance. Is he going to care about the price? Not if you catch him before the post-workout mind fog wears off and normal brain activity resumes. Are you feeling rich yet?

3.) People with stressful jobs and personal lives often use exercise as a form of emotional therapy when their shrink is unavailable, on vacation, or just ignoring their calls. They head to the gym hoping to clear their minds with vigorous exercise, but what they really need is a chance to unload their psychological baggage on an empathetic stranger. You can be that stranger—for a small fee, of course. Look for solo exercisers who appear emotionally unstable and are muttering things like, “Corporate reorganization? I’ll show him corporate reorganization!” Offer to spot them on the bench press and feign interest in their work/family/relationship troubles. As they pour out their heart to you, nod your head, furrow your brow, and throw in the occasional “How does that make you feel?” At some point during the session, casually mention your $30 per-hour rate. Soon, they’ll be seeing less red, and you’ll be seeing more green.

V is for VICKtory

Are you a serious runner who does serious workouts?

Do you run insane combinations of intervals and race multiple events in a single day due to a psychiatric condition and/or merciless coach?

Do you live in Montana, a.k.a. Perpetual Winter, where you must train and race at excessive altitudes in dry, arctic conditions?

Do you constantly suffer from phlegm build-up and an annoying dry cough despite the fact that you are an otherwise healthy non-smoker?

Are you tired of scaring away fellow gym patrons who avoid using any piece of equipment within a 50-foot radius of you for fear of catching your death cough? Do said exercisers shoot you uncomfortably long glares of disgust as they gather up their things, as if to say, “Why aren’t you wearing one of those Chinese SARS masks?”

Are you beginning to suspect this post is actually a poorly written script for a low-budget infomercial?

If you’ve answered “yes” to one or more of these unnecessarily numerous questions, then you need VICKtory, the only mentholated ointment specifically designed to relieve the symptoms associated with runner’s cough—from the makers of Vicks VapoRub.

Cough syrup can lead to upset stomach, drowsiness, and drug dependency. Throat lozenges often taste like off-brand cinnamon bears doused in cheap whiskey and become a dangerous choking hazard when used in conjunction with vigorous exercise.

But VICKtory stops runner’s cough dead in its tracks—safely and conveniently. Simply open the tub, scoop the goop, and swipe directly onto the skin between the nose and upper lip. It’s that easy!

Still skeptical? Check out these testimonials from real* VICKtory users:

“From what I could tell, it was just regular Vicks in a slightly different container with a new label. But yeah, it worked, I guess. At least until I started sweating and it melted onto my lips and mouth.”

-Brian (Bozeman, MT)

“It was, uh, interesting. Like eucalyptus-scented Vaseline. It did help my cough, but I wasn’t crazy about having slimy goop all over my face. People kept looking at me like I had a booger hanging out.”

-Alan (Aspen, CO)

“I absolutely LOVED IT!!!!!! Truly a miracle product. I’m going to start using in place of lip balm, body lotion, toothpaste, cooking oil and peanut butter!”

-Vicky McVaporub (Vixingtonshire, Alberta)

So what are you waiting for? Don’t lose to runner’s cough—let VICKtory bring out the winner** in you!

* “Real” in the sense that unicorns are real because people write about them

**This product is neither affiliated with, nor endorsed by, Charlie Sheen

I wanna go fast!

When I stepped outside the other day, I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with chilly spring air. It smelled like rain and mist and soggy dead grass. And that’s when I knew, without a doubt, that track season was upon us.

These kinds of days—the ones with still, foggy air and puddle-dotted sidewalks—were always my favorite for track workouts. I found the damp, cool air soothing to my throat, lungs and muscles.

When I set out on my run, I immediately felt a familiar spring in my step. At that point, I was no longer in control of my route. My legs took over, knowing exactly where they wanted to go.

I arrived at the high school track feeling fresh and ready to, in the words of Ricky Bobby, go fast. Without even thinking, I rolled into my pre-workout warm-up routine. It had been months since I’d last done my usual series of kicks, skips and leg-swings, but I was surprised at how easily it all came back.

I felt great. I knew it was going to be a banner day. I almost wished I had a coach or a friend or even a live studio audience to witness what was about to go down. I did a quick survey of the track facility and its immediate surroundings. There were a couple of groundskeepers working about 600 yards away from the stadium. I figured that since I could see them, they could probably see me. I decided that counted as an audience.

After doing a couple of strides, I made my way to the starting line. I was smiling, and I even thought about whistling the chorus melody from “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” Then I remembered that I never learned how to whistle, and I made a mental note to search for an instructional video on YouTube later that day.

I still hadn’t gotten a new watch, and I had a feeling the oral counting method would prove ineffective in a track interval scenario. But I didn’t care—I was doing this work out, with or without a working timepiece.

I slowly approached the line, shaking out my arms and legs to rid them of any lingering kinks. I leaned forward into the starting position, and boom! I launched into a full-on sprint, marveling at the quickness of my feet and the power of my stride. The first 200-meter interval was smooth and almost effortless. I actually felt like an 800 runner again—I wondered whether my training hiatus had affected my speed at all. Perhaps I was just some sort of athletic super human.

Then I tried to do another one. This 200, though, was not so smooth, not so effortless. This 200 hurt—bad. From the twinge in my calf to the tightness in my lungs, my body screamed at me, as if to say, “What the crap? I thought we were done with running fast. You are a liar and a scoundrel!”

I was just about to protest about the scoundrel part when I felt a sharp pain slightly above the back of my knee. I slowed to a more manageable pace. Suddenly, my brain was inundated with hypothetical crisis scenarios.

I imagined limping into the high school and asking various teenagers with bewildered looks on their faces for directions to the school nurse’s office. I saw myself hobble into her little examination room, where she gasped and exclaimed, in a thick Minnesota accent, “Omigash! Did you just come from Coach Brown’s P.E. class? I thought you guys were just learning how to juggle beanbags this week.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head, expelling from my mind all images of myself as an injured, pathetic failure. No, I would not give up. I was going to finish this thing.

During my last few intervals, I was glad the guys on the mini tractors were too caught up in their work to notice me. I was also glad I had no way of knowing just how slow I was running—thank goodness for Wal-Mart and its cheap, unreliable merchandise. The feeling of invincibility I’d started out with had long since faded into stubborn determination. The last few hundred meters were anything but pretty, but I finished them.

As I jogged home, the intensity of my spontaneous little trip down memory lane started to settle on my bones. I noticed pain in places that hadn’t felt it in awhile—shins, arches, hamstrings. I felt like a true has-been, risking my health to prove to myself—and anyone else who happened to be hanging around (i.e. totally uninterested park maintenance personnel)—that I’ve still got it.

Then I realized that wasn’t the case at all. I had nothing to prove. I just missed the feeling that I had briefly experienced during my first interval—that inimitable sensation of quickness, weightlessness and power. I knew that sooner or later, I’d be back at the track for more.

Well, maybe after a few hot baths and a trip to the chiropractor.

Solutions to common gym predicaments

We all wish we could have our own private gym à la Hulk Hogan, but for most of us, working out means sharing—and oftentimes, tolerating—the company of a variety of exercisers, many of whom are uneducated in the basic rules of gym etiquette. As such, your workout routine will inevitably be disrupted by the behavior of a fellow exerciser at one point or another. I have created the following guide to help you deal with such issues in a creative and timely fashion. Note: solutions have not yet been tested in real life situations. I hereby disclaim legal responsibility for actual outcomes.

The problem: The old guy with the Walkman is listening to a mix tape of his favorite 1960s folk songs as he goes through an extensive routine of resistance band stretches. How do you know this? Because he’s singing along. Out loud. You’ve maxed out the volume on your iPod, but you can still hear his tone-deaf karaoke rendition of “If I Had a Hammer” over the Justin Bieber play list blaring from your headphones. It’s really starting to affect your concentration, and you are seconds away from scrapping your entire workout to save your own sanity.

The solution: Scroll through your song library and find your favorite rap jam, preferably by an artist known for their indiscriminate use of profanity. Using a two-pound dumbbell as a microphone, jump onto the nearest bench and launch into your own impromptu karaoke performance. As you scream out lyrics containing multiple references to pimps and hoes, you will undoubtedly attract the attention of at least one gym employee, who will promptly escort you to the nearest exit. Before they can get you out the door, quickly remove your headphones, point to the still-oblivious geriatric crooner, and say, in a pleading voice, “Well what about that guy?” They’ll have no choice but to shut both of you up (if they don’t kick both of you out).

The problem: The guy on the treadmill in front of you is a seriously heavy breather, and based on the combination of smells wafting from that direction, you guess that his last meal consisted of a raw onion and two slices of garlic toast.

The solution: Take a mini fan (the one you had been using to cool yourself) and place it directly behind the odorous offender’s treadmill. That way, whatever stench he’s blasting into the air will be blown right back into his own nostrils. You might get hotter and sweatier after sacrificing your only source of wind resistance, but at least you won’t be suffering from stink-induced nausea.

The problem: Some clueless newbie is treating the lat pull-down station as his own personal gym locker, leaving his water bottle, sweat towel and clip board on the seat while he’s across the room doing calf raises. You politely ask him to move his crap because you need to use that machine. You thank him as he scoops up his things and mumbles an apology. You finish your lat reps and proceed to the bench press, where you find…his stuff.

The solution: Wait until he’s busy doing medicine ball tosses on the other side of the weight room, leaving his belongings unattended and vulnerable. When you’re sure he’s not looking, snatch up his stuff and stash it under a pile of stretching mats. Try not to act too smug as you watch him walk circles around the gym in search of his belongings. When you’re satisfied, purposely bump into him on your way to the water fountain. When he asks you if you’ve seen his stuff, hesitate for a moment as you “think,” and then tell him you might have seen something over by the plyo boxes…or was it the chin-up bars?

The problem: You’re in a time crunch, and you’ve got a four-mile tempo run to knock out. If you don’t make it home by 4 p.m. for Oprah, you’ll miss the TV debut of Celine Dion’s miracle twins. You beat cheeks to the cardio room, only to find that, in an effort to promote senior health and fitness, the local chapter of the Red Hat Society is having their monthly meeting on the treadmills. Every single machine is occupied by a female senior citizen; you’ve never seen so many velour sweat suits in one place. As Dorothy calls the meeting to order and Ethel seconds the motion, you realize that unless you act fast, there’s no way you’re catching the first glimpse of the world’s most famous French-Canadian babies.

The solution: Head to the front desk and wait around until the attendant is busy mixing up a protein shake. When you’re certain that they are completely distracted by the task of measuring out appropriate amounts of whey protein powder and Greek yogurt, slip behind the desk and grab the intercom receiver. Switch it on and announce that free prune-juice smoothies are being distributed at the snack bar—first come, first served. When the attendant is again distracted—this time by a rambunctious crowd of thirsty Red Hat ladies—make a smooth getaway and go claim your favorite treadmill.

Gym stereotypes: college edition

According to the feedback I’ve received from my most loyal readers (thanks Mom and Dad!) my post about stereotypical gym characters was a smashing success. So I have decided to produce a spin-off—let’s hope it’s better than Joey.

College rec centers are like the Marshmallow Mateys of indoor fitness facilities. On the surface, they look, smell and taste pretty much the same as the real thing. But when you take a moment to chew more slowly and really concentrate on the distinct combination of flavors and textures, you’ll realize that something is slightly off. Marshmallow Mateys are not Lucky Charms, and college gyms are not regular gyms.

As with any gym, though, university rec facilities harbor several distinct, stereotypical groups of exercisers. The following line-up is based on over four years of informal research conducted in the rec center at my alma mater.

The Newbies: These wide-eyed 18-year-olds usually travel in groups of friends they probably met at last night’s floor snack. They wander aimlessly through the gym, talking about trying different machines but never actually committing to one exercise for more than five minutes. At the end of their “workout,” they can be spotted purchasing smoothies at the snack bar with their meal plan swipe cards, thus outing themselves as freshmen, because seriously, who else would pay $6.00 for a cup of banana puree? Other key defining traits: high school sports t-shirts, university lanyards, visible insecurity.

The Dudes who are Trolling for Chicks: They work out in pairs (one dude-on-the-prowl, one wingman) and try to pass by the cardio section as many times as possible over the course of their workout. Each time they cruise by the row of elliptical machines, they consciously puff out their chests, flex their biceps, and walk like they’re carrying a keg under each arm. Other key defining traits: Hurley brand t-shirts (cut-off sleeves optional), backwards flat-brimmed baseball caps, cubic zirconia ear studs.

The Chicks who are Trolling for Dudes: These are the girls who come to the gym looking like they just wrapped a photo shoot for the spring Nike catalogue. Everything—from their brand new Nike Frees to their no-slip elastic hair bands—is color coordinated, probably in hot pink or neon purple. They pretend to be interested in the latest issue of Star magazine as they move just fast enough to keep the elliptical from slipping into energy conservation mode. Each time a remotely good-looking dude walks by, they push out their cleavage, stare seductively into his eyes, and flutter their mascara-clumped eyelashes. Other key defining traits: vanilla lattes, cakey makeup, bedazzled cell phones.

The Honors Students: Between their graduate-level organic chemistry courses and their weekly conference calls with Ben Bernanke, these scholastic overachievers have virtually no time to devote to the sole pursuit of physical fitness. But being the brilliant problem-solvers that they are, they have devised a system in which they can work out, write their doctoral dissertations, and catch the latest episode of Jeopardy!, all in one fell swoop. You can catch them in action in the stationary bikes area, where they can be seen pedaling feverishly as they work multi-page calculus problems and yell out phrases like, “What is the epiglottis?!” Other key defining traits: ankle socks, prescription goggles, high earning potential.

The Scrawny but Sporty Guys: Their beanpole physiques might have cut it in their high school basketball days, but once they set foot on a college campus, they realized they needed to beef up if they wanted to impress the ladies. These guys are serious about building muscle—they’ve really taken the whole “no pecs, no sex” joke to heart. They can be seen shadowing their bigger, buffer peers in the weight room, carefully imitating their every move with weights that are obviously too heavy. Other key defining traits: visible clavicles, baggy basketball shorts, lower back strains.

The Ban-the-Bombers: They use pickle jars as water bottles and shop exclusively at Goodwill and the farmers’ market. In their crusade against big business corruption, they have boycotted companies like Nike. If you make the mistake of engaging them in friendly conversation, they will try to convince you to sign up for their next sit-in protest and trade your new Nike Shox for clogs made of recycled organic clay. Other key defining traits: Sierra Club t-shirts, nose rings, hemp necklaces.

The Health-Conscious Professors: They’ve never heard of an iPod, but they are perfectly content to read the latest issue of The Economist as they power-walk their way to lower blood pressure. Often sporting t-shirts from obscure athletic events of the 1980s—like The 2^nd Annual “Let’s Get Physical” 7-Mile—these sagely scholars are here to not only manage their high cholesterol, but also to show all the young whippersnappers that they’ve still got it. Other key defining traits: tortoise shell eyeglasses, ear hair, striped cotton tank tops.

The Track Team: They’re loud, they’re sweaty, and they are definitely exceeding the half-hour time limit for the treadmill they’re using. You came to the gym hoping to enjoy a leisurely trot around the indoor track. Little did you know, the trackies were planning to sabotage your joggy-jog with a battery of sprint intervals. You cower in the corner, wondering why they can’t just work out in their own facility. The truth is, their athletic department is too cheap to spend money on sports other than football, so they don’t actually have a team facility. Come to think of it, you didn’t even know there was an indoor track team. Other key defining traits: speed suits, gold chains, short shorts.

No bra? Faux pas!

I really thought I’d seen it all.

I have worked out at various indoor fitness facilities for close to a decade now, and when it comes to gym clientele, nothing really surprises me anymore.

I’ve seen people sweat it out in jeans, button-up flannels, suede loafers, turtlenecks, khakis, denim cut-offs, turbans, Christmas sweaters—you name it. If someone were to hop on the elliptical next to mine in a pair of footie pajamas, I probably wouldn’t bat an eye.

For a long time, I considered such “unconventional” exercisers as inferior to those of us donning normal workout apparel like gym shorts and t-shirts.

Then I met people—most of whom fell under the previously discussed Longwinded Techy category—who lambasted me for my own clothing choices, including my extensive collection of Gildan 100% cotton t-shirts.

“Oh man, you’ve gotta get yourself some Under Armour heat gear. You’ll never wear cotton again,” they would tell me. Well guess what? I like cotton. I like the way it looks. I like the way it feels. I like the way it washes up. And I think there is a reason that cotton, not segmented polyurethane, is advertised as “the fabric of our lives.”

And so, gradually, I adopted a more forgiving attitude toward exercisers with eccentric gym wardrobes.

What I saw today, however, was utterly unforgivable. No pun intended. Well, you probably wouldn’t understand the pun yet anyway, but you will in a minute.

I was cruising along on the elliptical, watching the Harlem Globetrotters on ESPN2 and minding my own business. The Trotters were performing all sorts of amazing tricks, but when a flash of red diverted my attention from the bouncing basketballs on my TV screen to the running track that circles the cardio area, I fixed my eyes on another set of bouncing spheres.

The jogger on the track—a woman in her mid-40s or 50s—was decked out in red running gear, from the shoelaces on her training flats to the moisture-wicking fabric of her fitted shirt. It was what she wasn’t wearing that was so horrifying.

If she was trying to make a feminist statement, it definitely wasn’t working. I get it—bras are uncomfortable, and we as women must free ourselves from the social expectation to bind our bodies under layers of mesh and underwire.

While that argument might apply to women in non-exercise settings, I simply cannot accept it as a logical line of reasoning when it comes to women who jog. Today, I witnessed the effects of running braless, and even the most eloquent defense attorney could not convince me, beyond a reasonable doubt, that this woman was more comfortable sans support.

So, if you are a woman who is considering pulling a stunt like this, please consider the following points:

1.) Sports bras are made to be comfortable—so comfortable, in fact, that you might forget you are even wearing a bra.

2.) This does not mean that you should actually forget to wear a bra.

3.) There are two things in this world you don’t mess with: Texas and gravity.

4.) Some things cannot be unseen. Have some respect for your fellow exercisers.

And if you really must go braless, I would advise you to, at the very least, invest in some nipple guards.

SweatWow!

Okay, I promised I would reveal my next big idea in this post, but first I must recount the series of events leading up to its inception. Stay with me—it’s worth it.

First: I sweat. A lot. It is essential that you understand the magnitude of my sweating problem, so I have furnished examples of visual evidence to illustrate what I’m talking about:

This photo was probably taken around mile 1 in a five-kilometer race. There are a few things I would like to point out with regards to this image:

First, as you might surmise from the background, this was an outdoor race. Second, it was an October morning in Montana, so the temperature was right around 30 degrees Fahrenheit (that's -1.1 degrees Celsius for all you crazy Canadians). Finally, I am, in fact, wearing two layers of clothing. Now take a moment to imagine what “could have been” in the absence of cold air, wind resistance, and double layers of moisture absorption.

The following video clip was recorded after a six-kilometer (3.7 miles) race in Indiana last October. As I recall, the race-day temperature was in the high 50 to low 60-degree range.

Unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to post a photo of myself after completing an indoor workout. It is simply too graphic in nature. Just know that there is even more sweat. A lot more.

I sweat so much, in fact, that I usually leave a puddle on or around the cardio machine I use at the gym. I once overheard a fellow gym-goer complaining to one of the trainers that the sweat on the floor was “really disgusting.” She was standing right next to me. I was like, “Hello! My ears might be soaked in my own perspiration, but I can still hear you!”

A few days ago, after I completed a particularly sweaty treadmill run, my dad casually joked that I should use a ShamWow as a sweat towel. “Actually,” he said, growing even more animated, “You should just work out in an outfit made entirely out of ShamWow material!”

I immediately recognized this as my next big idea. (Okay, so it was actually my dad’s idea. Details, mere details.) But since I have a poor track record with following through on my inventions, I have decided to offer this idea to you, my loyal reader(s). All I ask is that you prominently display my name in all advertisements and give me a 55% share in the company.

Here is a rough pictographic representation of the business plan I’ve developed for my new line of SweatWow workout gear:

Feel free to use this graphic as a visual aid when you’re presenting our idea to the folks at Nike Headquarters. You’re welcome.

The things I think while working out: Britney edition

Believe it or not, there was a time when Britney Spears was actually kind of good—before K-Fed, before the umbrella incident, before she stopped wearing underwear.

Okay, so maybe she wasn’t really ever that good. But I was on the brink of entering middle school the year …Baby One More Time was released, so I pretty much had to be a fan in order to fit in.

So today at the gym, I was powering through a moderately difficult elliptical workout when an elderly gentleman jumped—err, stepped gingerly—onto the machine next to mine. He scrolled through the TV channels, finally settling on a M.A.S.H. rerun as he glided along at a leisurely pace.

In the past, I wouldn’t have thought twice about the disparities in speed and difficulty between his workout and mine. I was, after all, a college track and field athlete.

But now that I’m a has-been, I realized that there is really nothing—besides, oh, say, 50 years—separating this man and myself. It’s no longer, “I’m an athlete” and “You’re just a regular guy who likes to stay in shape.” Now we’re both nothing more than recreational exercisers!

Which brings me to my Britney Spears connection (no, I didn’t pull a TMZ and drop Britney’s name just to sucker you into reading this entire post). There’s a Britney song that goes something like, “I’m not a giiiiirl, not yet a woman…[some other nasally pop lyrics that I don’t remember]…all I neeeeeeeed is time, a moment that is mine, whiiiiiile I’m in betweeeeeeeennnn…”

For some reason, that song popped into my head as I gritted my teeth and kicked it into high gear for my final mile. (Okay, I had my iPod playlist set to “Most Played” and that song came on. So what?)

That’s when it hit me. Like Britney, I too am caught in between two stages of life. Last November, I ran the last race of my decade-long career in organized school sports. Unwilling to give up my Oreo habit or my sweet biceps, I kept working out like I had a season to train for even though I knew I would never again don a team uniform.

Admittedly, I do take a day off from exercising now and then—a luxury I allowed myself once a week, max, when I was training seriously. These days, if I want to 86 my run to watch animal fight videos on YouTube or browse the archives for my area code on Texts From Last Night, I do it.

Still, I’m a long ways off from lifting soup cans and joining the local mall-walking club. I’m not a Division I runner, not yet an AARP Fitness & Wellness Program member. All I need is time, a moment that is mine, while I’m in between.

But don’t worry—I plan to steer clear of trucker hats and back-up dancers who think they can rap.

The things I think while working out: gym stereotypes

With every gym comes a certain cast of characters. If you’ve spent a considerable amount of time at your local athletic club, you know exactly what I am talking about. Actual gym population make-up may vary by region, but here are the main profiles I’ve identified so far:

The Rocky Balboas: These are the guys who show up in head-to-toe gray cotton to sweat it out on the stair-stepper like they’re cutting weight for the high school wrestling championships. Other key defining traits: grunting, snarling, teeth-gritting, spitting.

The Biggest Losers: Inspired by NBC’s popular weight loss series, these newbies purchased a gym membership in hopes of shedding pounds without being harassed and demoralized by Jillian Michaels. Other key defining traits: pedometers, Sketchers Shape-Ups, hyperventilation.

The Has-Beens: These former high school sports stars haven’t quite accepted the fact that their athletic careers ended 17 years ago, and they’re here to relive their glory days. Often taking the form of 40-year-old men playing pick-up basketball, they can be heard saying things like, “If only Coach could see my jump shot now. I’d be in the starting five, fo sho!” Other key defining traits: thinning hair, visceral fat, beards, high-fives.

(Note: Has-Beens may also take the form of washed-up ex-college track and field athletes.)

The Trainers: They got into the business with glamorous visions of training Olympic weightlifters and pro football players. Now they’re stuck helping thirty-something women tone their thighs and lose pregnancy pounds. Other key defining traits: abs, clipboards, forced enthusiasm.

The Overbearing Sports Parents: They can be seen spotting their seven-year-old on the bench press and screaming, “Up! Up! Uuuuuuuppppp!” each time junior struggles to punch a rep. They are convinced their kid is the next Peyton Manning, so they’ll make sure he does everything he can to propel himself to NFL stardom—be it power cleans or MasterCard commercial auditions. Other key defining traits: stopwatches, windbreakers, chewing gum.

The Longwinded Techies: These are the guys who hop on the treadmill next to yours, GU packet in hand, and tell you how awesome their new GPS watch is. When you don’t respond (because, hello, you’re in the middle of a workout!) they ask you if you have one. You (sort of) politely answer no and hope that will be the end of the conversation. Just as they prepare to deliver a 20-minute expository speech on the merits of GPS devices, you put in your headphones and pretend to listen to your iPod, which died half an hour ago. Other key defining traits: hydration belts, Dri-FIT apparel, bad breath.

The Schwarzenegger Wannabes: These roid-raging beefcakes will hog the platform for upwards of 30 minutes per lift, as they will spend several minutes flexing in the mirror between sets. They show up in waves and speak only with each other, presumably to share protein shake recipes and compare cut-off t-shirts. Other key defining traits: spray tans, weightlifting belts, acne, anger.