Gym Etiquette

I go to the gym twice a week, the rest of the week I try and walk for thirty minutes a day, there is a strange gym etiquette that exists.

Women treat the gym, like all places where more than one woman gathers at the same time, as an extension of their living room, they meet to talk. Oh yes there's the pretence of working-out, getting hot and bothered but it's a social gathering more than anything, it's somewhere to meet friends between breakfast and lunch - and as for the yummy mummy's well they're another barrel load of monkeys completely.





Mandatory gymwear for certain women.







The Yummy Mummy is there for one reason - to be seen. She walks from one piece of equipment to another pretending to be interested. She can't actually exercise because that would seriously enhance the chances of breaking a nail, or cause a hair to slip out of place, besides which those gucci sweatpants weren't really designed for getting sweaty and those pretty pink trainers must'nt get hot either. In one hand is her little Prada handbag and in the other is the latest Motorola,, she's desperate to be seen and loved.

Then there's the men, these fall into two groups but the interaction depends on which group you belong to. When you walk into the gym there's usually an acknowledgment from one of the regulars, this doesn't extend any further than a cursory nod or an "all right mate?" Then it's down to business.

If you are doing aerobic exercise such as the bikes, rowing machines, cross-trainers or treadmill you don't make eye contact with anybody, just stare straight ahead, occasionally glancing down at the digital read-outs, or at one of the many t.v monitors pumping out MTV or Smash Hits TV.
If you do happen to try and pass the time of day with your fellow man or woman, you get the sort of look that's usually reserved for the neighbourhood pervert - talking to somebody when sweat is pouring off your head making you look like a six foot bald version of the Angel Falls is not to be encouraged.

If you are working on the weights that's a different story, you are the alpha-males of this particular gathering. You can discuss how much you can bench press, how your deltoids are shaping-up, whether doing twenty reps instead of ten reps is a viable option and you must remember to remove your clothing layer by layer until you are standing in an athletics vest and shorts so skimpy you'd get arrested for wearing them outside of the leisure centre. If you're a weightlifter you're sweat smells of aftershave or bodyspray, the hole in the ozone layer above the gym is rivalled only by that over Antarctica. You move at regular intervals over to the windows, by means of that funny walk that looks like you've shit yourself, just in case somebody happens to be passing and they can share this vision of Adonis like beauty. Unlike the aerobic exercisers, looking at other 'real' men is positively encouraged, as is staring at your own reflection in the mirror. Admiring that waxed, hairless chest and what frankly looks like a semi in those tight shorts is practically compulsory.

The best way to piss off the weightlifters is a Westlife hour on Smash Hits, these guys need pumping music, preferably something guitar based, as one complained recently during the video of "Amazing", "Turn it off - where's my motivation?"


"Real men to the left please and the rest of you, er, 'blokes' and the women to the right, and stay away from the windows."