Dear Mr. Sweaty Gym user,
I commend your dedication to staying fit, I truly do. Most people your age couldn’t give a rats a** about their personal health. I’m sure you’ve got one of those crazy all-juice diets going for you too. Yeah, you’re the kind of person Kaiser Permanente loves to plaster all over their ads for health insurance. Brava. Unfortunately, the rest of us gym patrons are forced to endure the physical and verbal bearings of your labor.
I remember our first encounter on a slow Sunday afternoon. Following my usual gym routine, I blasted my playlist of booming Euro-beats and thrashing metal guitars, striding through an imaginary finish line on the elliptical at the end of a long row of empty machines. I didn’t mind of course, but I was surprised when you passed rows of lustrous exercise equipment and slung your towel over the machine beside my own. I didn’t even mind the occasional groan from your elliptical, protesting under the weight of your hiking boot-clad feet. I became annoyed, however, when you started panting only two minutes into your workout. Assuring myself that you were only out of breath from the exercise, I continued on with my own workout.
When the panting escalated into a full-blown throaty grunt, I sent my ipod flying out of its secure position in my arm holster and skittering across the floor in surprise. I was a little irritated at having to disrupt my rhythm to adjust my ipod settings and inspect for damage.
Amidst your barrage of throaty bear grunts, I was somehow able to endure forty more minutes on the elliptical. Admittedly, I felt a twinge of guilt at the resentment I held against you. After all, you couldn’t control your need for oxygen.
I finally caught a whiff of the sour stench of your sweat. I should have figured it was you I was smelling, but I had to glance over at you to check. Good God, you were sweaty. Had it not been for the smell, I would have assumed that the stains running down the back and front of your shirt had come from dumping a bucket of water over your head. I was sure I felt a spattering of moisture hit my entire right side when you shook out your glistening hair. The flecks of perspiration speckling my arm confirmed my suspicions.
I leaped off of the elliptical, slipping in the puddle of sweat at the base of your machine as I strode toward the exit, unable to stand your pungent, guttural presence any longer.
Every time I’ve gone to the gym, you’ve been there, and each encounter heeds the same results. As a fellow gym regular, I would kindly suggest that you jog on over to Kaiser and get a checkup, or at least use the towel the gym has so graciously provided you with.
Sincerely,
Your Fellow Fitness Enthusiast
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