Jon Malstrom | Authentic Ramblings

It’s time again for True Confessions. 

(Random but somewhat-related parenthetical anecdote:  I’ve never been a fan of Truth-or-Dare.  I usually choose the dare because the truth hurts.  My pride.  But while the truth hurts, sometimes the dares can get you into much more trouble.  I once had to drink an 8 oz. mixture of milk, vinegar, cottage cheese, and three big squirts of red food coloring.  My digestive tract was abnormal for a week and my doctor tested me for a bleeding ulcer.)

Anyway, where was I going with all that?  Oh yeah – my confession:  I haven’t been to the gym in about three weeks.  Life got busy, I traveled out of town for a week, then I got a miserable headcold and spent most of a week cowering and whimpering in a fetal position on my couch.  But this week – baby I’m back!

When I walked into LA Fitness on Monday, it felt like a different gym.  The machines and stuff were the same, but the freak-count was ratcheted up several notches.  Looking back over the last few months, I can recognize certain patterns of gym use and types of clientele:

• January is when the Cranky Resolutioners show up.  These folks made a half-hearted commitment to get fit in the new year.
• During February Fall-out, the Resolutioners lose desire and retreat back to their La-Z-Boys, big screen TVs, cartons of Costco Three Musketeers bars, and Family-size bags of Cheetos.  The gym is then owned by the Macho Hard-Cores.  The overhead soundtrack subtly changes from Taio Cruz and Maroon5 to Hollywood Undead and the Smithereens, accompanied by syncopated grunting and ecstatic manly screaming.
• I skipped most of March.  I’m not sure what happened during my absence, but it must have been weird.  I’m guessing it had something to do with the Super Moon.  Now that I’m back in the swing in April, I’ve sighted multiple new mutant breeds that I’m doing my best to avoid.  Almost every visit reveals some new tribe that I’ve never seen before, making me feel like a 19^th century missionary in the Congo.  I’m hopeful that all I’ll need to fear is an awkward encounter and not 21^st century cannibalism.

Here’s a rundown of the behavior and rituals of a couple of these new tribes:

The Jug-O-Pee tribe.

This particular clan comes to the gym bearing one-gallon cartons filled to the top with a pale yellow liquid of some sort.  Every tribesman I’ve spotted is a tall skinny dude with spindly arms.  The jug seems to serve two purposes: hydration and free weight.  I’ve seen them standing in front of the mirrors at the back of the gym, a 15-pound dumbbell in one hand, the jug in the other, alternating over-the-head arm extensions.  After every completed set they take a large swig from the jug, followed by a loud, primal “Whooooo!”  Maybe the stuff really is pee.

The Playa tribe.

The members of this people group are singularly middle-aged men with male-pattern-baldness.  Their ceremonial wardrobe consists of tight track pants, a red velour jacket unzipped to mid-bulging-paunch, and a 2-carat CZ stud in the left ear.  (They are very conscious of “left is right, right is wrong.”)  

 Apparently there are chicks who love these guys to drag them around by their hair.  I observed a particularly disturbing mating ritual the other day while I was aerobicizing in my usual people-watching spot at the top of the stairs.  Two mid-20-ish ladies were sitting on some stationary bikes in the row in front of me, chatting and laughing and working their thighs.  Chief Playa swaggered up the stairs and made his way toward the one on the left.  “Hey dumplin’.  Gimme some.”  He leaned over, grabbed the back of her head, and started to devour her mouth.  Just gross.  She giggled and ran her finger across the velour sleeve of his jacket.  Then, he turned to the one on the right and said, “No pouting babycakes.  There’s enough Larry for you too!” (Why are they all named Larry?)  Then he went to town on her mouth.  I threw up a little in my own mouth.

What indigenous gym tribes have you encountered lately?