Fleas in the gym©

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E-mail sent to some people.

OK, so, if you are receiving this it is because I feel you can shed some light on this particular matter, as you are all somewhat physically active in one way or another and somewhat worldly in one way or another.

I’m loving this new experience (gym), and being able to be in a different environment for an hour or so every second day.

The staff is now beginning to recognise me, and greet me, and I greet them.  The guy who has put the exercise programme together for me, Brett, is a real sweety.  I asked one of the other guys to call Brett on Monday and he literally jumped up from behind his desk and jogged towards me, which was probably part of his daily training but anyway, I was glad to see he was well brought up and had been taught to show respect to old folk.

I usually go at 1pm, which is definitely a quiet time, and at their busiest at that time, I have seen perhaps 10 people training, sometimes it’s just guys, sometimes just women, and sometimes a combination.  They also have a small enclosed section called Feminique with tinted glass and just a few pieces of equipment so women can train in there if they want to.

I only went into that section once, the first time, when I had to do three exercises involving that big ball that is half as tall as I am, and the exercise routine required me to do exercises of the pelvic variety, which I don’t normally have a problem with except that in this instance it would have been on a huge ball, in full view of other people training, of which 100% were men.  So I decided to do those three particular exercises in the female enclosure that day, but then decided to do them at home instead, and use more of the equipment at the gym while I’m there, and I do all my exercise routines in the main gym.

The gym itself is in good condition, the cleaners are constantly cleaning the equipment, inside, outside, top, bottom, I should employ one of them for my house I think.  The change rooms are very clean; everything is very clean.

So then, what’s with the fleas?  The fleas?  Yes, the fleas.  Here’s the story:

I went to gym today not my usual day as I couldn’t get there yesterday and today I did a double session, as I was also needing to let off steam about something, so I did my two cardio exercises and was delighted when I was able to sail through one of them, the one with the big steppy feet and long armies, where previously I had to pause the machine – and myself – every few minutes when I first started this whole story.  So I was chuffed.

For the second session, I went downstairs and put my key into the thing and checked out what the next day’s exercise routine is, and it’s a fun one, especially the pull down pulley or whatever it’s called – piece of cake.

But the one before that is the shoulder press, which I have now only done twice and I’m still taking strain but I’m getting there.

So I’m sitting at this shoulder press contraption, in a less than flattering position, with these big machine arms on either side, a seat like a bicycle seat, with the front kind of sticking out a bit, anyway, it is usually okay except today I was doing this exercise, with leggies on either side of the bicycle seat, which is fine, but this time there were about five or six guys pulling and pushing and gaaning aan a few metres in front of me.  I didn’t make eye contact but I did notice them huffing and puffing and pulling themselves up and hanging like gorillas from one of the high contraptions – I was doing anything to pass the time and take my mind off the 10 kgs I have to push/pull forward with each arm.

And suddenly the one guy who had just finished working on one of the p ieces of equipment – gym equipment – starts scratching himself, as men do, and I thought okay, so this guy’s got fleas.

But for heaven’s sake, how many?  Is the whole Flea Family in there? Visiting from where?  His Armpit?

And then his pal, who was walking towards that piece of equipment, ALSO scratched himself, so now I am really pushing those 10 kgs on both arms hoping the equipment will explode and klap these okes one time.

So I avert my eyes, and on the left, next to the mirrors (lest the gorillas don’t watch themselves perform) is a big oke, oomph oomph, about to hang himself from one of the contraptions that has a horizontal bar and pulley things and weights and G-d knows what else, and just as he’s about to hang himself, doesn’t he just grab his flea.  I mean, grab it, not delicately give it a vigorous scratch.  He grabbed a whole handful, and as I said, he was a big oke, probably one of the Blou Bulls or Groen Bliksems or whatever they are.

So I think, okay, so now, what is it about men and their fleas in public?

I have dated several men in my time.  All were men-men, all were physically active in one form or another, played sport, whatever, all had various interests.  We had a fairly active social life, but never once did any of those guys scratch his flea in public or grab his flipping flea in public and kind of weigh it, you know how you do with a pound of I don’t know what, I can’t even think straight, I’m getting all flustered.

So can one of you explain to me what it is about men and scratching themselves in public, or adjusting themselves like they’re working with a dowsing rod and are trying to find water, or metal, or like the Blou Bliksem, WEIGHING himself like that?  I mean, honestly.

BP
23.4.2009

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