Gymbo Rant

 Ahh, January. 

That time of year when the resolutions start, and the gyms become crowded. My rant today, however, is not about the newbies, but rather, the regulars. One group in particular.

When I quit 24 Hour Fitness, I eventually found myself at my current place, a small, independent gym called Iron Addiction, owned by a truly badass woman who has body building crowns on display in her office. Seriously, I want her shoulders. 

The gym is great--it's small, but it has top-of-the-line equipment and everything is kept in great working order. It's always clean (though I did once watch a muscle-bound dude spit on the floor, wipe his shoe in it, and use the wet spot to have some glide in his lunges, but I don't blame the owner for that one). The people who flock there tend to be very serious about weight lifting--there's a mirrored room for posing and taking pictures, and no one gives you side-eye for grunting or gasping while you lift. 

And, for the most part, people are really good about not hogging things. It seems to be understood that with a gym that small, you can't hog multiple machines or spend an inordinate amount of time on one piece of equipment.

Enter the young'uns.

I'm fully aware that I'm sound entirely like a perimenopausal, get-off-my-lawn, Grade A Old. 

But I am perimenopausal. And yeah, get off my lawn. (I'm not old, however.)

Yesterday was a gym day, but I didn't leave work 'til about 4:30 because I had a meeting with one of the teachers I'm mentoring. By the time I sit through the mess of I 80 and get to my gym, it's nearing 5:00 and I want to spend no more than an hour. Get in, get 'er done, get out. Go home. Feed cat. Feed Meg.

It was an upper body day, so after a quick cardio warm-up, I set out to do some seated rows. There were a lot more people than usual, so I was careful to make my four sets as quick as possible. Next, it was over to the dumbbell rack, for some bicep curls into overhead presses. (My back just twinged typing that sentence--DOMS is real, ya'll.) 

While doing four sets of curl-to-press, I was eyeing a nearby bench, currently being used by a twenty-something woman (Bench Lady) and dude. Another pair (guy and gal) had just claimed a machine near the bench, and they started talking to the two using the bench. 

In my four sets--going back to the rack between each set to get a new set of weights--I noticed that Bench Lady never did one set on said bench. She stood around chit-chatting withing the small group of four. 

I finished my sets just as the four dispersed, and Bench Lady walked away from the bench. I thought I'd give it a try. "Are you using this still?"

"Oh yeah! I'm using it."

Girl, I just spent a good 15 minutes competing four difficult sets of my exercise while you stood around hogging one of two available benches and doing nothing with it. I muttered, "Then, you know, use it." as I walked away.

Now, in the grand scheme of things, is this earth-shattering? Heavens, no. But it grated on my get-off-my-lawn, perimenopausal nerves. My gym is not prohibitively expensive--at $60 a month, it's rather a bargain--but my reasoning here is that I spend $60 a month to use these facilities, and when I do, I'm not on a social call. I'm there to work out, and I want to move as quickly as my body allows and then get home. I do not want to stand around waiting for anyone's social group to finish their reunion while hogging a piece of equipment that many people might need.

In the spirit of blogging more in 2026, I figured I'd put it here.