Funny thing about a blog. It’s sort of like a plant. You can get sidetracked and forget about the poor little thing and before you know it, it’s crusty and withered and dying.
As you might be able to guess, I’m not a good gardener.
But back on the horse. We’re now at about a month and a half until the triathlon, three months until the marathon. I’m in the thick of training. And I’ve noticed one thing about myself: I am having an identity crisis about who I want to be.
Not professionally. Not personally. Not in the great higher deep meaning sense.
I cannot decide which crazy gym personality I want to be.
I’ve become a regular, working out there six days a week, and as a devoted people watcher, I’ve started noticing other regulars who entertain me like they’re part of some sick twisted reality show. People seem to view the gym like they do singing in their car: because they’re in their own little worlds, no one else notices them. But oh, we do. Let me introduce you to some of the cast:
- The sorority girl who knows everyone: I’m keeping track. Every time this girl comes in, complete with a blonde bouncy ponytail and a sorority t-shirt, she sees someone she knows. Her reaction is pretty impressive. She bounds over to them, squeals out a greeting, usually with a strange nickname (last night’s was Bobo. I kid you not) and jumps up and down until the person puts down their weights, steps off the cardio machine and acknowledges her. Sort of reminds me of my Terrier.
- The leg shaver: This woman is my least favorite. At least once a week she sits on one of the benches in the middle of the locker rooms, plugs in an electric shaver and shaves her legs so she can watch TV while she does it. The first time I saw her do this, I nearly vomited.
- The wall: This man is nearly 7 feet tall (I know, because my trainer who is 6’5” stood next to him and only hit his chest) and has no neck, just a head on massive, massive shoulders. He never speaks, only grunts, and he terrifies me. Actually, I can’t talk about it now. Stop asking already.
- The dancer: this man alternates lifting with doing jumps and toe touches. In the middle of the weight room. Usually, he makes the guys around him so uncomfortable that they clear a space around him so he can move. The other night he actually spun around pirouette-style. It was beautiful. Brought a tear to my eye.
- The possible steroid user: this guy insists on wearing v-neck t-shirts that appear to be a bit dressier than normal gym wear. He can’t really carry the look, though, because he has no shoulders, due to um, extensive lifting. His neck is the size of a tree trunk and he grunts ridiculously loudly every time he moves. Also, should you be able to count all of the veins in a person’s neck?
- The Frat guys*: these guys travel in a pack, wear shirts that say things like “Drink till she’s cute” and set up elaborate circuit training stations that get in everyone’s way. They then proceed to complete their circuit exercises with poor form, as much weight as their bodies can handle and as much noise as possible. While one exercises, it’s not unusual to see the group of them surrounding the equipment shouting things like “one more set bro,” “get it done,” “you’re money” and other gems.
- The guy who never leaves: Can someone please come claim this guy already? He’s there every day. He knows everyone, and he wears the same outfit every time: gym shorts, an UnderArmour long sleeved shirt and a Chicago Bears hat. Most of the time, he doesn’t appear to be exercising, just walking around looking at everyone else. I’m worried about him.
There are many more that have caught my eye or fascinated me throughout many a workout, but these are some of the all stars. After watching all of these people for months, I’ve started to wonder: how do people see me? I’m guessing “that girl that always looks near death” or “that girl whose face resembles a beet while running.” Hmm. It’s sort of a interesting thing, though. I could mold my persona into whatever I want to be in front of these people who don’t know the real me. Oh the power.
*Note: my characterizations are in no way, shape or form meant to be derogatory to sororities or fraternities. I totally drank that Kool Aid while in college and am a proud card-carrying former sorostitute. Go Greek!
