I've finally gone back to work training, once again, at a larger-scale health club (hence the rescinding of my identity; here on the blog I'll once again be known as GymSpy to avoid any conflict of interest). It's a bit of a departure from my last club, which was very up-to-date, very shiny, very well maintained. The new workplace, under new management, is about to get a facelift: flat screen TVs, new equipment, new coat of paint. But many of its members are of the old-school persuasion---lots of meatheads, basically---which is a major shift from the Pilates enthusiasts and marathon runners I'm used to seeing. Even the heavy lifters at my last club were barely discernible from the yoga-loving crowd. Sometimes they were into both. But not here.
Yesterday I saw a young guy in socked feet looking for a place on the weight-room floor to do his sun salutations in front of the mirror, awkwardly sandwiching himself between rows of Hammer Strength and Cybex machines in search of a spot. (Which, unfortunately, ended up being five feet directly behind the Smith machine where I was working out. It was all I could do to keep a straight face while, as I was performing lunges, he loudly went through the motions of inhaling and exhaling.) I can only imagine how some of the bigger guys must react to his noisy exaltations, and hope that the updated facility will include a larger stretching area, where he won't stand out like such a sore thumb.
Even I find the free-weight area to be a little intimidating, given how Y-chromosome-dominant the space is. I kind of miss the all-inclusive atmosphere of my old gym. But I'm here now. So I claim a bench, pretend not to notice the stares, and try to be a little less conspicuous than Yoga Guy.