At the University of Tennessee, 20,000 undergraduate students and God knows how many graduate students and faculty members all share one gym. Granted, the TRECS is a fantastic facility with all the fitness equipment one could ever dream of. But that's still a lot of people for one gym.
So, as you can imagine, each trip to the gym is an eventful one. Sometimes I have to stand in line for a while for certain weightlifting machines, and sometimes, like on Saturday mornings, the gym looks like a ghost town. Nevertheless, because I am stuck in bed with severe shin splints and have nothing better to do, I will attempt to explain to you what I experience during a typical afternoon visit to the TRECS.
Upon arrival, I am expected to swipe my card and walk through one of those metal bars that turns and counts people. Even though I am the only one entering at that particular time, the obviously bored people behind the desk insist that I show them my card beforehand. This is to ensure that I will not use it to swipe in my imaginary friend.
Next, I head upstairs to the indoor track. After putting my bag in a locker and stretching, I head for the track. As I attempt to run my typical two miles, I am forced to weave in and out of sorority girls who come to the gym dressed like Nike ads. These girls walk three laps around the track then head for Smoothie King. Personally, I don't blame them. If I spent $150 on a workout outfit, I wouldn't want to sweat on it either.
When I finish running, I head downstairs to the weight room. I wait in a line of 10 people so that I can sign out a sweat towel. Then, I run into that person. That person who wants to have a conversation. I have no problem with being friendly, but I do not go to the gym for social hour. When I am at TRECS, I am in my own little world. I want to work out and leave. I have no interest in chatting with anyone about how "cute" my shoes are. Thank you, now leave me alone.
As I make my way to the weight machines, I can hear the grunters. And, even worse, the screamers. Every gym has them. They are those guys lifting free weights who yell as loudly as they can in order to alert everyone in the gym how incredibly buff they are. I, personally, find it a very sad cry for attention.
I take my place at the seated row machine while one of those buff guys snickers when I move the pin from 293,572,938 pounds to 35 pounds for each arm. Yes, I'm 5'2. Yes, I'm small. And, yes, I have extremely wimpy arms. If I scream at the top of my lungs while lifting the 35-pound weights, do you think maybe my arms will get big and muscular?
After fighting for a place on the floor for ab exercises, I return my towel, wait in a long line to sign it out (Seriously, do they think I'm going to steal their sweat towel?), and then make my way outside. On my way to the door, I pass the Smoothie King. The alpha-zeta-omicron-beta-whatevers are still there.
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