Gym Etiquette, or (Could you please shut up?)
So I’m at the gym, a feat I always feel deserves a standing ovation or at least a call from the president, and I’m on the Arc Trainer, which is my current aerobic flavor of the month, and I’ve employed all manner of motivation to stay there for sixty minutes. By this, I mean that from my machine I can distract myself with three different plasma screens; Should I feel celebratory, there is the endless replay of the Giants winning interception against Green Bay. If I prefer to get nauseous, MSNBC alerts me to the plunging stock market, and if I’d merely like to feel better about myself compared to someone else, I can watch the decline of that poor, cute guy from Taxi as he Celebrity Rehabs on VH1. Also, I have Salt n’ Peppa and Bruce Springsteen on the Ipod and I’ve put my contacts in, which means that if there happens to be any male eye candy doing anything even remotely provocative I can spot it instantly. So life is good, yes? No. I’m at minute thirteen when SHE gets on the machine next to me. SHE takes about five minutes setting up all her stuff; two towels, water, Ipod and headphones which become tangled and which, she then drops, thereby knocking my towel to the ground. Although she picks it up and replaces it, she accidentally steps on it first and instead of feeling like super healthy gym girl I’m now thinking about all the icky sweat droppings of previous exercisers that are on the floor, not to mention the bottom of her sneaker. But this is nothing. Finally, she seems ready to work out (I am at minute 17) when, I kid you not, her cell phone rings. While simultaneously entering her weight and time and adjusting her headphones, she holds the phone to her ear and begins a conversation that does not begin with “…sorry I’ll have to call you back I’m at the gym…” but instead, “Oh hi. How are you? No, I can talk.”
Now, you may wonder, how could I possibly hear her through ‘You make me want to shoop’ or ‘Rosalita jump a little lighter?’ Exactly. Can you imagine how loud she was talking? By the time I upped the volume on my Ipod loud enough to tune her out my eyes were bulging out of my head from the decibel level and I had to make an executive decision; deafness would not be an acceptable price to pay for this workout. I tried to stay positive. Maybe she was talking about something really interesting. Better yet, maybe she was talking about someone I knew! No luck. Here is a recap, from memory, of the conversation: “So I told her that it was her turn to pick up the kids because I did it last time and even though it was a holiday schedule that shouldn’t affect the rotation, you know? Don’t you agree? I’m right, right?” Apparently she was because whatever the other person said fortified her even more. “I know! That’s what I said! And Allison told her the same thing.” Now I start to worry. Apparently there is another mother involved, Allison. How long can it be before she calls in? But little did I know that it wouldn’t be another call to perpetuate this annoyance.
By the time I hit minute 32 I have turned off the Ipod and given up all hope of musical Zen when someone gets on the machine to my right. I steal a quick glance and pray that this person has less than 13 pieces of personal equipment to organize. Luckily, I see only Ipod and water, a good sign. I am about to try and make the obligatory eye contact that will both alert her to the talker on my left and align her to me in spirit. She looks my way, I make my move, and just at that minute, she begins to wave excitedly to HER. It takes only a minute for HER to notice, and shout into the phone, “I’ll call you right back.” And then, “Allison! We were just talking about you!” It is almost too funny. I am now treated to a repeat of the entire conversation and am tempted to interrupt and ask Allison if she agrees that the carpool rotation shouldn’t change just because of a holiday. Instead, I weigh the options. I would really like to ask HER and ALLISON to be more respectful. Not only can’t I exercise in peace but now they are having an entire conversation across me. But do I really want to be the woman at the gym who tells other women what to do? No I do not. Also, they are younger and one of them is skinnier than me. Does that make a difference? I don’t know. Maybe. The gym is not exactly a hotbed of nourishing self esteem, forgive me if I'm not at my most self-assured in Spandex and a beater. Anyway, by the time I think it all through it’s minute 53 and I’m so proud of my endurance that I don’t care that much. A few minutes later when HER cell phone rings again, it’s almost too much, but by then I’m getting off and swabbing away the germs and who knows? Maybe it's the endorphins or the calories burned or maybe the call could be for me. One hour on the Arc? It just might be George Bush after all.