all sparkly and shit

DON’T BE THAT GUY AT THE GYM…

…because if you do these things, you may or may not realize or care, but PEOPLE HATE YOU.  Seriously.

– If you can help it, don’t get on the treadmill directly next to someone.  It’s the treadmill code.  That way, no matter what you do, the people around you have a little space from you and your workout.  I swear, I will be the only person on the treadmills, and some douchebag will choose the treadmill RIGHT BESIDE MINE out of the 20 available and huff and puff and fling sweat on me.  Ugh.  If it’s crazy busy, I get it, otherwise, get away from me.

– WEAR DEODORANT.  I know, you’re here to get sweaty.  I’m not asking you to shower before you work out, but in the name of all that is holy, you REEK and it’s only getting worse by the minute as you row on that machine.  It’s called Speed Stick.  Use that shit.

– I know it’s the gym and not a library, but try to not be REALLY REALLY LOUD.  When you lift a weight, do you really have to groan so loudly I can hear it over Beyonce and then SLAM the weights down?  We know, we know, you’re soooooo ripped.  We’re all impressed.  And if you get a phone call, ignore it and call back later, pick up and quietly let the person know you’ll call them right back, or step off your machine and go to the designated ‘cell phone use areas’ which are clearly DESIGNATED for your OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD CONVERSATION.

– When I am running, I turn beet red, sweat like a freak, and am not ever cruising for dudes.  So LEAVE ME ALONE.  Go hit on one of those girls who wears the perfectly coordinated Lululemon, her freshly blown out hair down, and a full face of makeup and sits on the stationary bike with her Us magazine but never breaks a sweat who IS clearrrrrrly here for the men.

– Don’t look at my screen.  EVER.  I don’t want you to see my weight when I put it in, you have your own TV so if you want to watch the Kardashians turn to E! on your own damned screen, and most importantly, don’t try to peek at my stats.  I can’t tell you how often people get on the treadmill next to me and race me.  I don’t run in Central Park because I don’t want to race with overzealous dads in too short running shorts, so don’t do it to me at the gym, too, Mister Midlife Crisis Marathoner.  I’m only running a 10k anyway, so you win!  WOOHOO!!!

You’re welcome, gym-goers.  You’re welcome.  And feel free to add the billion I forgot.

 

 

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This entry was published on April 17, 2013 at 4:33 am. It’s filed under Bitchin' and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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