Fitness club folly...

If you’re young, single and your keyster spends a good part of the week parked in an office chair, chances are you try to fight off the office slug love handles with a gym membership.

I count myself as one such card carrier.

However, I was reluctant to join the club of gym rats and neurotic sweat fiends, fearing that a Globo Gym might turn me into a hamster on a wheel and cut into my outside jaunts through the neighborhood.

That fear quickly subsided as I flashed my shiny new membership card to the excessively cheery front desk lady during the first visit to my new sweat shop. Little did I know that the gym is such a party for curious eyes. How can anyone get a workout in with so much hilarity surrounding you?

When you actually unplug your ear buds, stop counting curls and take a peak around, the gym becomes a breeding ground for comedy.

There’s the bookish, gray-haired lady with 3-inch thick glasses clutching her 300-page novel as she walks in circles around the indoor track. How she manages to stay in her lane, flip the pages and retain what she reads is a tight-rope act that puts Ringling Brothers to shame.

And shame is the first feeling that pierces my cerebellum when I see a fortysomething man, glued to a Nautilus machine, sweating through a pair of jeans. One of the unwritten Golden Rules of Sport is: Never wear jeans to Little League practice, never wear jeans in high school gym class, and never, ever wear jeans to the gym. It screams incompetence. You could be one of the most uncoordinated, weak, stamina-less lots in the building, but if you rock Nike cross trainers, mesh shorts and a charity 5k T-shirt, your struggles with chest presses are glossed over. But by wearing jeans, judging eyes might stare you to death on the Stairmaster.

On the other end of the fashion spectrum is the Sweatinistas, a breed of young female, most likely single and most definitely attention-craving, who hop on treadmills and ellipticals dolled up like they are headed to Prom. Earrings sway, pearl necklaces dangle and eyeliner inexplicably avoids bleeding. I find myself conflicted: My inner monologue flows with snarky quips at the sight of the overly decorated Sweatinista, but, at the same time, I appreciate the outward display of bachelorettehood. If I wasn’t drenched in sweat and gym stink, I might float a suave comment her way at the water fountain…

However, one species of gym dweller I avoid approaching is the Woahmen. Woahmen are defined as fortysomething ladies who work out under the illusion that wearing spandex and tank tops designed for their granddaughters is a good idea. Listen Woahmen, as much as I try to sympathize with your struggles to let go of youth, wearing more loose-fitting apparel might allow for a more pleasant gym outing for all of us. Outside the gym, our culture has been oddly celebrating your lust for Round 2 of your twenties by calling it “Cougarhood.” Inside the gym, you’re just nasty.

Then there’s the thirtysomething behemoth at the bench press who you swear you saw hauling school buses over his shoulder on ESPN. With each lift, this brute fills the whole room with grunts of primal manliness. He’s the obvious king of this kingdom, and the unspoken “There’s no crying in fitness clubs” rule does not apply to him. You catch yourself daydreaming a walk down the street in his shoes for a fleeting second, but then common sense prevails: What woman would ever want to date a guy who could toss her car up the block when they argue?

The breed of gym dweller who I always want to reward with a head nod of respect in between reps is Joe. Joe is that guy or gal who never wastes a second of gym time, whose sweat forms a small pool of hard work next to him/her. Joe doesn’t flaunt a wife beater or a two-piece bathing suit, but rather a plain white T-shirt and a bland pair of Russell Athletic shorts. Joe smiles and might say hi at the water fountain. Joe is not spellbound by his/her muscle mass, nor preoccupied with the contour of his/her glutes. At any moment, Joe might mouth the words to the song playing on his/her iPod. Joe knows that, despite popular opinion, life won’t be much easier even with a tight six pack, so he/she does 100 crunches rather than 400.

Here’s to you, Joe, for making me feel welcome in a world filled with such odd creatures.