Gyms

Everyone has their comfort zone, a location where his/her mind sifts through the daily garbage and life's weighty decisions. It is in this comfort zone where the brain is in its wheelhouse and fires the most level-headed cerebral neurons. For some, this zone is a serene, ambient coffee shop; for others, it's behind the wheel on a country road; for others still, it's in the confines of three tiled walls and a shower curtain. My most thorough mind-scraping is performed in a gym with barbells in hand or on a treadmill.

I have yet to pinpoint what about the gym is so desirable, especially when a third of my attendance requires an inner pep talk or some sort of post-workout gastronomical negotiation with myself. But I love it. It could very well be the riddance of the day's amassed perspiration and frustration; or the pleasure in knowing that my entire hour-plus workout just negated the caloric damage of that fun-size Baby Ruth I polished off after lunch; or maybe it's the giggly towel-snapping I do with "the boys" in the steam room.

Whatever the reason, I leverage the good vibes flowing through the fitness to knock out some serious, gut-wrenching conflicts and mankind quandaries. Like, just the other day, between sets of bicep curls, I contemplated effective means to reduce the national deficit, which opened up a swirling rabbit hole of the ramifications of China one day deciding to suddenly stop loaning to the U.S. federal government and start collecting, which somehow led to me deciding to frugally purchase Christmas gift-wrapping supplies at Big Lots rather than Walmart. I mean, that's at least eight bucks saved. Now, that’s conflict resolution!

An undeniable common denominator among all gyms worldwide is the repeating personality traits among the clientele. Every gym has its predictable, standard characters -- it's a sitcom waiting to be written:

• The guy who works out all the time and yet shows no visible signs of change in his three-year gym tenure.


• The aimless wanderer who aimlessly wanders around with a towel over his shoulder but with no intention of ever using the towel because he only aimlessly wanders around.


• The girl who actually applies more makeup prior to her cardio class and uses a water bottle with layers of dried lipstick around the opening.


• The older gents who prefer their sports conversations to only occur in the openness of the locker room. While naked. And facing each other.


• The meathead who groans and grunts obnoxiously, uncomfortably, and utterly unnecessarily loud with each muscle exertion as if those of us around him are on the brink of witnessing a scientific breakthrough in the first male-birthed child.


• The boney, wiry guy whose entire dresser drawer of gym attire consists of Under Armour.


• The guy who appears to be flirting with himself in every mirror, in every stance and flexed position imaginable.


• The curvaceous female who saunters the gym like it's a Paris runway in totally nonfunctional skin-tight sweat pants.


• The dude who bench-pressed the day before yesterday, bench-pressed again yesterday, and today is on an ab-crunch machi--oh, nope, never mind, he was just waiting for a bench press to be freed up.

The list is truly endless. Yet somehow fairly universal. It's as if standard gym protocol mandates that each fitness center has this many weights, that many machines, and these people. Trust me, I used to work part-time at a gym myself -- you couldn't dream of more impeccable people-watching. It's like a fountain of youth for your self-confidence.

Oh, and that back-to-back musical one-two punch courtesy of Ace of Base and Nickelback you hear over the gym speakers? It's no accident. Someone actually requested that radio station. What kind of sick world do we live in?