By Stevie B.
I finally found my "real" gym in the last month. A gym without all the
trappings. No cardio queens, no angry Moms pushing past on their way to
a "stretch and fit" class. Just hard working dudes pushing plates. The
gym didn't even have air-conditioning, it was truly a hard core black
iron gym. This gym is the type of place where I didn't have to hear from the other half that I wasn't stopping to gossip and chat with the muscle queens.
"Joe told me you haven't been talking with him at the gym?" I heard on several occasions. This kind of social hair salon setting made me glad I found a working class, blue collar gym.
With the testosteronieness of this gym, I even rediscovered and found it easily to ramp up my work outs. I wanted to push past my "comfort zone" and perform at the level of the muscle heads flipping tracker tires in the parking lot.
I was feeling pretty damn happy for my self. Well, until yesterday when I read the noticed taped to the front door. The one with the really bad grammar explaining that the gym was either being clothed at the end of the moth, or that it was closing at the end of the month.
I found out the gym was closing.
Bummer. I guess it's back to 24 hour fitness for me. Plenty of time to stop and chit-chat with the gays.
This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.
