Florsheim Dress Shoes on the Treadmill

 It had been years since I stepped inside a gym. I was the proud new owner of a gym membership, thanks to my big mouth declaring my New Years' resolution of shedding twenty pounds.

          Day one, I lifted a little weight, gyrated on some electric monkey bars, and rode around a bicycle that went nowhere. After this incredible display of athleticism, I strutted into the locker room to cool down and shower up. As I sat there on the bench, proud and sweaty, I became surrounded by my fellow gym members in various stages of disrobing. It was an awkward moment because I don't know how to act in front of naked people besides my wife. I don't want to be caught looking at something I shouldn't be looking at, whether it was shyness, shame, or guilt; who knows why? It sounds like something for Dr. Phil to dissect.

            Once you are inside the theatre of pain, you can quickly size up the patrons into four types of exercise patrons. First on top of the food chain are the Gods and Goddesses, the Adonises and Venuses'. They are buffed and usually tanned with a hint of orangeness to their skin, and their clothes seem to be undersized in all the right places. There are tattoos of barbed wire around biceps and mysterious scripted messages on the women's lower backs. They have their area in front of the workout mirror and large weights where no wimps are allowed.

            Second are the socialites; they are there to meet and greet and not be inconvenienced with sweat and body odor. They bring their cell phones to declare their status on their Facebook page and Twitter account about how many steps they did on the Stair Master. The males in this grouping are constantly working on their moves at the juice bar, and females wear shorty shorts with messages stamped on the backside. Sure they draw attention, and most men stop pumping iron, and other women sneer. I think of them as the gym cheerleaders.

            The third is the average every day, Joe Smoes. They are there because they feel guilty about munching down pizza and swilling some brewskies down at the Chucky Cheese pizza joint. They want to get through their workout as fast as possible while jamming to tunes in their earphones, mouthing the words, and playing air guitar. They get their workouts done, get home, sometimes shower, and must always eat something because the guilty feelings they once had are now gone.

            The last group is my tribe. We are the leftovers, the newbies, the guest pass coupon people, the clueless, and the lazy. We wear stained sweatpants, cutoff jeans, and our work clothes. The guy next to me was wearing Florsheim dress shoes on the treadmill. I saluted him as one of my own. We sometimes cause a scene like when we drop a stack of weights that is extremely violent sounding followed by dead silence.

            If I work my way up into the Joe Smoes, I will have to get upgraded sweatpants and learn to control my flatulence in the yoga class. Once I put a good solid year into bodybuilding and take off my shirt while I mow my front yard, the socialites will have to accept my charisma.  After three years, and I have continued to pay my gym fees, I can start working out in front of the wall mirrors.  I will probably not get the tattoos, but my pale and hairy skin could use a tan and some manscaping.