Thursday, May 5, 2011

Planet Fitness, The Judgement Free Zone my A@#!

Planet Fitness bills itself as the “judgment free zone” gym where you can cheerfully work out with anyone being critical of you.  Sounds like a nice marketing gimmick, but I’ve got news for them and you.  We all judge.  We are all critical.  That’s half the fun of going to the gym.  Making fun of all of the other out of shape people while still feeling good about yourself.

When you go on a fairly regular basis, you obviously become aware of the other regulars, although I have yet to have a conversation with anyone there.  We are stretching, running, grunting and flailing.  Way too busy to talk.  We are all plugged into our iPods, either clipped to our shirts or strapped to our arms ready to battle with the Stairmaster or treadmill.    Here are some of the more notable people in my favorite PF.

  “Gut” is this incredibly fat, sweaty, bald dude that seems to be able to bench press his weight in Budweiser.   He’s always at the gym but hasn’t lost an ounce. I think his abs are literally six packs. 

“Nan,” short for Nantucket, wears the same outfit every time I see her.  She either has three-dozen Nantucket sweatshirts or one very smelly one.  Since she always works out alone, I’m thinking the latter.

“Preen” cannot go from one end of the gym to the other without looking in mirror at least fifteen times.  I ‘m sure there isn’t a mirror out there that he hasn’t tried to impress.  Does have big guns though. I’m jealous.  

 “Tat” a forty-something trying to look like a twenty-something blonde has this elaborate tramp stamp that she doesn’t mind sharing with the rest of the PF gang.  Unfortunately, she has a little too much junk in her trunk.  I while away my time thinking what that is going to look like in another 20 years, the tat not the junk. 

“Spaz” is the weirdest guy I think I have ever seen.  He does this bizarre routine, on the bike, treadmill or standing in front of the mirror.  It is a cross between the St. Vitas’ dance and an epileptic fit.  It consists of these wild gyrations, swinging his hands over his head in some sort of celebration, flexing his fingers, making sweeping motions with his arms and legs and hopping.  It must work because he is always drenched in sweat.  He makes Elaine Benis from Sienfeld look like she just won Dancing With The Stars. 

Then there is the guy who sets himself up in the middle of the treadmills so he has a good view of Sopranos reruns, CNN, and Sports Channel.  He has a smug look on his face as he passes judgment on each and every one who walks in front of him.  “G.O.D.,” is gimpy old dude. Me.


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