The Pretty People

After several riveting rounds of the what-nothing game, my wonderful, yet ambiguous, visitor left for the airport this afternoon. Videos were watched; Thai food was eaten; tension was ignored. A good time was had by all.

After he left, I carted myself off to the gym to run off any lingering confusion (and Thai food). I walked onto the floor, and immediately found myself awash in a sea of pink lycra. It was 5:30, and "the pretty people" were out in full force. You couldn't do one tricep dip without getting a honeybabysweetheart from a gruff-looking man with no neck. I did my 45 minutes and got out of there, reminding myself yet again why I don't work out between the hours of 5 and 7 pm.

Gyms seem to be their own ecosystems, and 5-7 is apparently not my ecological niche.

My in-depth scientific research (i.e. going to the gym) has revealed that gym habitats appear to be arranged not so much geographically as chronologically. There are the 5-8ers, executive types. They arrive in the latest moisture-wicking technology and leave precisely sixty minutes later in pinstripes. They are well-dressed, well-mannered, and well-built. Elliptical machines, stairmasters, and treadmills are their stomping ground. The stationary bikes are unused and unloved, for early morning gymgoers do not exercise sitting down.

As the pencil-skirt brigade makes its exit, a new set begins to trickle in. These are the 9-5ers, people who work out while the world is at work. Though by far the largest habitat, it is also the least populated, with people meandering in and out throughout the day. Workday gymgoers are friendly creatures, coming as much to chat as to work out. They are easily recognized by their uniform: oversized t-shirt and undersized leggings. Typically, though not always, they are sporting at least one (if not several) Mickey Mouse iron-on. There are no men of the species.

5:30 heralds the arrival of the pretty people, so named not so much because we think they are, but because they think they are. Women of the species wear as little as possible, but that which is worn is brightly colored. Many seem to have had an unfortunate run-in with an Loreal truck in the recent past. Female pretty people have the miraculous ability to spend hours at the gym without touching a single piece of equipment. Males wear tank tops with inordinately large arm-holes and mesh shorts advertising their steroid of choice. Their necks are often diminished, or completely gone, having fallen prey to their ever-expanding shoulders. They walk from machine to machine, straining to lift twice their body weight, and then precipitously (and ear-splittingly) dropping it to the floor. Pretty people are constantly on guard, always on the look out for other pretty people.

Finally there is the evening crowd, the 7-10 folks. This group is still a mystery. Some wear spandex, some sweats. Some come for the nifty tvs that are attached to the treadmills, some to check out the rear ends of those who came for the nifty tvs. Clearly, more research into this group is needed.

Now, where does a non-lycra-owning, crazy-hours-working musician fit into this schema? Your guess is as good as mine.