Open Letters: Dear gym rats

Dear gym rats,

Let's get one thing out of the way right now: I am not a bodybuilder. Never have been. As my mother so delicately puts it, I'm what you'd call "wiry." You've probably seen more meat on a chip. Having said that, I do (semi-)frequent the Fitness and Recreation Center here on campus in an effort to assuage some of my cram-a-Five-Guys-burger-down-my-cram-hole-and-wash-it-down-with-four-nights-of-drinking-a-week guilt. After three and a half years of gym-related malaise, I have a message for some gym patrons: Stop it.

Disclaimer: I've run into plenty of meatheads at the gym who've been nothing but respectful and generally mind their own business. To these noble students, I say carry on (and please don't beat the shit out of me).

The rest of you should know who you are. But just in case you don't, here's a rundown of some gym regulars that could stand to tone it down a bit.

Guys that wear those shirts with the entire side cut out: Can we just put a moratorium on wearing these shirts ever again? I'm sorry guys, but any shirt that even hints at a possibility of me seeing your nipples needs to be outlawed (this counts for deep v's too, super hipsters). You realize you're just a slight fabric tear away from wearing a poncho, right?

Anyone that wears a fragrance: There's an unspoken agreement at the gym — everyone's going to smell a little funky. It's the nature of exercise. The last thing I need when I'm sucking wind after two laps around the track is a mouthful of Chanel No. 5. Bros, take it easy on the Axe. Do you know what the combination of body spray and your body funk smells like? Soup. You smell like soup.

Narcissists: Everyone's narcissistic, but this is ridiculous. The mirrors are for making sure you don't hurt yourself, not for checking out how pumped your biceps are while you're doing curls.

People trying to get laid: If you fall into any of the above categories, chances are you belong in this one, too. The only thing more sad than trying to hook up at the gym is how painfully obvious you make it. I'm talking to you, guy who waits until the hot girl walks by to bang out that last set. And you, girl in compression shorts who unnecessarily walks by the free weights. There's already a place for people to get sweaty and try to score — it's called Dead Hipster.

If you fall into any of these groups, pump the brakes a little. It's demoralizing enough for me to strain and struggle with my 10-pounders (I'm going for tone, not bulk) while Thor is ripping through his fifth set with the 120s right next to me without having to worry about choking down your body spray or seeing three-fourths of your man boob.

Regards,

Nick

nick.gast@umontana.edu