One day in the fall of 1982, I took a long, hard look in the mirror.
What I saw scared me. I saw a man who was at least 30 pounds overweight. I saw a two-pack-a-day smoker. I saw a heavy drinker.
But even when those guys left the men's room and it was just me in front of that mirror, it was clear I needed to get in shape.
So I joined a health club and have been working out ever since. Do I enjoy it? Of course not. Oh, I used to enjoy playing racquetball, until my knees took on all the consistency of yogurt. Now I swim laps in the pool or use the Nautilus equipment and pray that I'll black out, just to break the tedium.
Still, even when my workout is tolerable, there's the risk of being annoyed to death by these types of club members:
The Model
This is the person who's there to show off her $150 Ixspa warm-up suit, $60 Avia thong leotard, $70 Nike Healthwalker shoes, manicured nails and $500 worth of jewelry.
The Model rarely works out because that could lead to (God forbid) sweat, which would ruin the crisp, Exercise Barbie! look of her outfit.
And while she's powerless to stop it, she'd also prefer that everyone else at the club not sweat, either, as it creates a thick layer of humidity that plays havoc with her hair.
The Socializer -- This person is there for one reason: to gab with as many people as possible. His own workout is almost an afterthought. The way he walks around shaking hands and slapping backs -- except for the fact that no one's pressing $20 bills in his hand -- you'd think he was running for mayor.
Like a dog that instinctively goes to the person who fears him the most, the Socializer will strike up a conversation with the club member (usually me) who least feels like talking.
Whether you're huffing and puffing on the StairMaster or attempting to bench-press 150 pounds without having the barbell slip and crush your thorax, the Socializer is right in your face, jabbering about what's wrong with Clinton, how the country's going to hell in a handbasket, etc.
The Next Schwarzenegger -- With muscles out to here, this person never met a mirror he didn't like. Owner of a vast collection of tank tops, he loves coming to the club, as it gives him a chance to gaze adoringly at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and recite his workout affirmation: "I love me. And you love me, too."
His is a peculiar language of abs, delts, pecs, reps, getting ripped, etc.
When he "works in" with you on the weights, he smirks and makes a big show of adding 200 pounds, instantly making you
feel like one of the Keebler elves.
The Expert -- This person works out for one reason: to tell everyone else what they're doing wrong.
This is the fat guy named Roy in the "Budweiser: Breakfast of Champions" T-shirt who comes over while you're on the pec deck and says: "You're holding your arms too high."
"Gee," you think, "I didn't know there was a video out called 'Exercise the Roy Way!' "
Of course, Roy also knows everything there is to know about swimming ("Your kick is too wide"), racquetball ("You should Z-serve more") and running ("You should stand up straighter").
After five minutes in this person's company, you'll want to push him down a flight of stairs.
The Obsessive-Compulsive -- Usually young and single, this person may as well wear a sign on his back that says: "I've got way too much time on my hands."
This person doesn't play three games of racquetball, he plays 12. Then he lifts weights for 45 minutes and swims a mile in the lap pool.
Stooped and exhausted after his three-hour workout, he has the same healthy glow as a hostage handcuffed to a radiator in Beirut for two years.
The Sun God -- Even in the dead of winter, this person is never without a deep, dark suntan. What's his secret?
Vacations in the Bahamas?
Condo in Palm Springs?
Nah, tanning salon in Essex. Which explains that peculiar orange tint to his skin that all but announces: I've been exposed to large doses of radiation.
Only 34, he has the dry, leathery face of an elderly Balkan cabbage farmer. But he feels that's a small price to pay for looking good in a white Ungaro T-shirt and biker shorts.
The Nutritionist -- This person is always on a diet. Therefore, her conversation is never about anything but food: the calories in this, the fat content in that, the fiber in the other thing, blah, blah, blah.
Half mad from hunger, she bounds up to you in the morning with that eerie glow in her eyes and chirps: "All I ate yesterday was a half a bagel!"
Or else she grabs your arm as you munch on your post-workout apple and gasps: "You're eating that whole thing?"
If at all possible, you should lock this woman in the steam room when you work out.
The Orthopedist -- Whatever your injury is, he's had it, only worse. And he'll be happy to yak your ear off about it.
Tendinitis? Been there, done that. Plantar fascitis? He'll give you a 20-minute dissertation on the subject. Thinking about arthroscopic surgery for that bum knee? He'll wave his hands in disdain and say: "That's nothing. I had two 'total knees' last spring."
He'll even recommend a full range of treatment for your injury, including orthotics, anti-inflammatory drugs, cortisone shots, rehab exercises, etc.
Of course, this person is never actually a medical doctor -- he works at Ralph's Carpet World.
7+ Generally in remnants, for some reason.
The New Jane Fonda -- Aerobics is her life. She's extremely fit: up to three risers in her step aerobics class. She has to have the same spot all the time: front row center, to the left of the instructor.
All her movements are exaggerated. She spreads her arms out farther than anyone else. Her kicks are higher. She'll even strap weights to her legs to make the workout more grueling.
Everything about her says: "Look at me! You wish you could do the things I do!"
The others in the class are secretly plotting to kill her.
The only question is what to do with the body.
B6 And people wonder why I don't work out more often.