The Free Thinker

Alright so I broke my promise. I'm so sorry blogland. You just can't compete with summer.

But since today is a holiday in the US (where all our clients are), but not in Canada (where we are), I am at work...with nothing to do. What better time to get back in the groove? However, I'm going to stay away from the heavy stuff until I'm back in better blogging shape. I therefore bring you: the signs that I go to a gay gym.

Now just as there's more to being gay than really liking penis, there's more to a gay gym than having a primarily gay clientelle. No, the gay gym drips in gayness, even without any homosexuals present.

My gym is gay because:

• It has three calf machines that see almost no use, yet three ab machines and an ass machine that are in near-constant use. My last two gyms had neither ass nor ab machines.
  
• It has a hair gel dispenser and two handheld hair dryers in the change room.
  
• It has a separate women-only weight room to keep all the pussy out of the sausage party.
  
• The few straight guys that come always bring their girlfriends...and kiss them constantly to reinforce their heterosexuality.
  
• It is, quite literally, right behind Fly, the most gayest gay club evar.
  
• Everybody there is in really good shape. As if they bulked up at a "normal" gym first to prepare themselves.
  
• To work out there is to checked out non-stop...and to like it.
  
• The change room has ten showers with doors and one without. Guess which one gets used the most.
  
• Last month a bunch of posters went up trying to sell personal training sessions. The tag line: "Get in shape for pride!"
  
• Guys are constantly pulling up their shirts to check out their abs.

And finally:

• There's not a sauna, because, well, do I really have to explain this one? A gay gym with a sauna would soon end up being used as a discount bathhouse.

That's it for now folks. Let's hope I can get back in the habit!

After a month of cancelled appointments I finally made it into the gym for my "fitness consultation" today.

Going to the gym for a "fitness consultation" is sort of like going to a used car lot for a "transportation consultation." No matter what your circumstances, you absolutely, positively should buy one of these lovely rustbuckets.

In this case, instead of slimy salesman trying to hawk me some piece of crap Buick, he was trying to sell me personal training.

I have no problem being asked if I'm interested. It's a service that every gym offers, and certainly a legitimate one. But my gym forces you to go in for this goodamn sales pitch just to get your membership card.

It started out well enough. He asked what I was doing, what my goals were, and so forth. Measured my body fat, took me upstairs and checked my form on a few exercises. Then we went back to the office and he drew up a suggested program.

The weird thing is, the program he drew up would've had me spending six weeks working on my "core strength" before I moved up to a more advanced program. By more advanced, I mean the program I'm doing right now.

Quite frankly, it's a gay gym, and this represents a fundamental misunderstanding of why gay men go to the gym. Does a guy ever say "Wow, check out the core on that guy!" No. So we don't care. We're a very superficial people. Actual strength gain is secondary to improved appearance. Know your audience.

If you really want to sell the program, tell me I'll have a six pack, and rock hard chest and ass in six weeks. Make me feel like I'm going to get laid more thanks to you. Not that I'll be better able to balance on a fucking rubber ball.

Of course after he was done designing the program, just as fellow gym members had warned me, the axe fell. "Now if you really want to get the best results, it's important that you have a trainer with you."

I feigned poverty to no avail. Just $75 a month! You'll make so much progress! I told him I like working out alone, which is true. And frankly personal trainers annoy me. They're so artificially upbeat and they're always making this forced go-nowhere small talk to appear personable.

Anyways, it took me a good five minutes to convince him he wasn't going to sell me anything. I should've just told him the money would cut into my ecstasy budget. That would've shut the bastard up.

Once he'd finally got the message his friendliness suddenly vanished. He took away the paper with the program he'd just drawn out, and filed it away. Isn't that a little bastardly? Like let's try to maintain the illusion that we're going to help you whether you pay for sessions or not. Apparently at this place you don't get the bait unless you bite the hook.

That wasted a good hour of my time, and by the time it was done I was so hungry that I just headed home and didn't get a chance to actually work out. The funny thing is, he acted like I'd just wasted an hour of his time. I didn't even want to do the fucking thing, I just wanted to get my membership card already.

Of course they don't care if you're pissed off or not, because they've got you by the balls with your contract. It's like the cell phone industry. Except Rogers didn't make me attend a session on the benefits of picture messaging and mobile web browsing before they let me use the phone.

I'm already a paying member of your gym. If you're going to pout because you can't sell me extras just leave me the hell alone.

Image courtesy of Xtreme Simpsons.

The ex would tell you I have a lot of trouble setting priorities. He'd be right.

I've been pretty much living at the gym for the last week and a half. Before that I was going steadily, but this whole three-hours-a-day-every-day thing is more excessive than I'm used to. And you know what? I can't stop. I'm getting into that state where if I miss a day I'm going to be very cranky.

I guess I've sort of replaced partying with exercise, for the time being. Of course I'll continue replacing it with sex whenever possible, but I don't have as much control over that.

This is good, and it's bad. Obviously it's good to exercise. But, as always, I've taken it too far. You're looking at someone who can find three hours a day to spend at the gym, but struggles to find 90 seconds to take out the garbage. Somebody who would rather cancel coffee with a friend than miss the gym, if he had to work late. Somebody who is now completely antisocial on weekdays because he's too busy lifting weights and doing crunches.

I've stopped returning calls promptly. I've reduced my daily social time to a few minutes on MSN before bed. Every time I show up to the gym, I fear the attendant will utter those awful words, "Sir, I think you've had enough."

But I don't see myself having enough until I can replace the weights with a cute boy. You're looking at a life-long gym junkie. Who wants to be my methadone?

Image courtesy of midiman.