At the Gym

I joined a fitness club today- L.A. Fitness if you're not into the whole brevity thing.

I've worked out in many gyms throughout the years and I'm never surprised when I go to a new one. There seems to be a certain species of human that thrives at a gym. Like a bizarre petri dish. You've seen em too.

First off there's the out-of-proportion man. He's been wailing on his pecks and traps too much. His lower half looks like a 9-year-old.

There's the lady that could probably kick your ass. More often than not, she's the Cardio Step instructor. You see her bench press every once in awhile, and what ever you put up, double it. That's hers.

There's the hot chick that stretches in front of wherever you're working out. She has a perfectly coordinated spandex deal from Puma or Nike. It looks more like intimate apparel.

There's the Screamers. Every gym has 'em. Loud outbursts and crashing weights are the Srceamer's calling card. They have a mini pose-down every two minutes- between gulps from a gallon of water they're hauling around.

There's the Treadmill girl that's at the gym before you, and she's still trotting away when you leave. She could also be the girl that could kick your ass.

There's spandex man. Usually clad in Under Armour and usually a former captain of the high school wrestling squad. He's usually doing power cleans and scoffs at your pathetic 110 pound cable crossover.

No gym would be complete without the overly friendly sales guy. He's your friend as soon as you show the slightest interest of joining. Between the cryptic schpiel about how he's going to take your money, guy asks you a number of canned questions about how life's going and your fitness goals. He will always call you big guy, champ, buddy, bro and/or chief.

If nothing else, the gym is a people-watching paradise.