Finally, someone has listened to my pleas and grunters are getting kicked out of gyms.
Hold on. I’ll explain.
In spending a year living with Zoë, I gradually moved my occasional gym visit from the cardio/estrogen area to include the weight/prison yard area. I’d never ventured over there before, fearing that my lack of weirdo leather belt thing and barbed wire arm tattoo might brand me a resistance training dilettante. But Zoë’s got no problem pumping iron next to Butch and Tiny.
Turns out it’s not that bad. While they don’t have the same respect for my fabulous fitness ensembles in the prison yard as they do in the estrogen area, those boys are quite polite.
Until you get a grunter.
You know the grunter. It’s the guy in a tank top, which is obviously bad enough, who must audibly alert everyone to just how hard he’s pushing himself. Like we’re all going to stop what we’re doing and admire his ridiculous display. If I can hear you through my iPod, you’re either one step away from a dirty look or a hernia.
Oh, it’s not just at the gym. These assholes are everywhere.
K.G. joined Zoë and I on a power walk through the Presidio. As we finally completed our loop, exhausted and sweaty and ready to go fucking home, some goon sprints by, running as if for his life. You could hear this guy hysterically breathing and grunting a mile away and as he brushed past us, practically knocking K.G. over, I rolled my eyes and said, “Jesus Christ. We GET it.”
A guy stretching on a bench laughed. “No kidding! What was that about?”
Clearly, I’m not the only one.
And the sentiment is spreading. Earlier this week, some meathead in Albany, New York was escorted out of his gym by police.
Hell yes. I’m all over that shit.
I might be there, like twice a week, but on those rare occasions I show up, I expect all grunting to cease.
We’re not training for Iron Man, pal. This is Ghetto Gym. Recognize…