Sweating through their clothes, scaring me deeply.
Could they have the flu? Or are they just working hard?
Something in their eye was kind of glassy
Something in the air was kind of gassy
Something in the room made me need to leave.
Strangers at the gym sharing too small a space
Strangers at the gym...
I am sure there are people at the gym who might think I am a little odd with my big blue bag, lots of books and a little limp. When people ask about my knee, I tell them the truth, when they really might want to hear "It is great!" I get it. The gym is a public place where people publicly hide in their own little mental cocoons while they exercise, myself included. People come in all shapes and sizes and unspoken rule is that I won't pass judgment on you if you don't pass judgment on me. We are chose to herd ourselves into these rooms with a high density of equipment and pound away.
I hereby am going to break that rule. I am sorry. Call me horrible names. Again, I am sorry.
A few days ago, I was at the university gym, working out on the elliptical next to my favorite bike. There are about six or so cardio machines in this small little corner office window area on the fourth floor. I love working out there. I consider that bike my bike, and I am completely neurotic about needing to ride it. As I have mentioned before, it is far from the television screens and has a great view for a gym.
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| The corner office at the gym |
I got to the gym early Tuesday morning. When I got there, there was a middle aged man riding an elliptical in my corner office a few machines down from mine. He had a little buffet lined up on the machine: an orange, carrots and dip, granola bars, water bottles. The water bottle makes sense. Granola bars? Check. An orange is a little different, but okay. It isn't like he is biking to Portland, but whatever. The carrots and dip? What?
He was also very sweaty. His shirt and pants were soaked. I thought, He is near the end of his workout. He has probably close to being done. After about fifteen minutes, he kept going. He would pause for a minute, then continue. I have seen him before but never so sweaty. I wonder if he was on some new kind of medication or if he needed medical attention. I thought about asking him is he was okay, but his posture was good so I figured he was at least under his own control. If he was slumping over the machine, grabbing his chest or having problems breathing, then I would have gotten someone at the front desk.
He paused, and wrung the sweat out of his shirt. A puddle was appearing under his elliptical. Surprisingly, he didn't smell that bad at first--he must have had a clean sweat where all of his salt and other chemicals came out before I got there. As time wore on, a slight odor was starting to waft over in my direction. After a half an hour, he showed no signs so slowing down or stopping. I had to move. I had to leave my most favorite corner because I was grossed out. My sanctuary had been invaded and violated. The best part of working out was this corner of the gym, or so I believed. I went down to the main floor and found a recumbent bike and finished my cardio. I was sad, but also realized that exercising on the main floor wasn't too bad.
Wednesday night, I went to the Pacific Northwest Ballet's studio rehearsal. Jack reminded me that my favorite dancer, James Moore, sweats a lot. How could I be so critical of this poor guy next to me at the gym and not James?* Does a professional dancer get more slack than a duffer at the gym? Unfortunately, yes. I guess that makes me a bad person.
"Moore puts a towel around his neck after he dances," I said. "Plus, he seems to manage his sweat. If he makes puddles, he or other dancers could slip and fall."
I decided I'd go back to the YMCA for the week. This morning, I was walking past a house on the way to the YMCA when I saw a man on this front steps. He was smoking and his eyes were a little glassy.
"Good luck with your ankle," he said. I winced. Dang,** I thought. Even this stoned guy can see my limp. I had been working really hard to walk without a limp and I was a little depressed it was called out. It turns out he has an injured and swollen ankle, and was offering me support. It was sweet, but a little odd. (My son said he must not have been that stoned if he noticed my limp.)
Then I got on the bike. There was a very nice man on the bike next to me, who was sweating less than the guy at the university gym. This guy would have had an impressive amount of sweat if he hadn't been beaten out earlier this week by the sweatiest man I have ever seen. I thought of offering this man a towel, walking over to the stack provided by the Y just for that purpose, but I couldn't. Sure, James Moore uses a towel, but that doesn't mean this man would appreciate my gesture. At best, he would have been embarrassed, at worst, he would have been highly offended. I smiled, and let him sweat.
* I'll help you skip the google search for James and give you the link.
** My father thinks I need fewer f-bombs on my blog.
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