In nature the strongest males mark their territory by urinating against trees, rocks and basically anything that doesn’t move. The leader of the pack prance around spraying its distinctive scent. Lions do it, dogs do it, hippo’s do it (ok, they spray something else), even lemur’s do it, after singing “I like to move it, move it”.
Did you know that buff dudes at the gym like to do it too?
We have a member in our gym who walks around like he
has is the biggest member of all. This guy is made from pure muscle, definition and enough veins that would make a map cry. He’s not built like a tank, more like a Ferrari with a six-pack. A Men’s Health Cover Model Top 10 Finalist, as per very large poster of him in the gym. A fantasy man for most woman and the envy of some men. Or is that the other way around? I wish I was kidding, this guy has a fat percentage of -4%. He seems to know what he’s doing.
And that probably means he is eating oats at 04h30 in the morning, has seven meals a day made up of tuna and protein powder, drinks at least four litres of water and spends 38% of his productive day in the urinal. This excludes excessive daily sessions throwing weights around and total abstinence from alcohol. The poor man. Not to mention a weekly program of scheduled animal hormone injections. I’m joking. He doesn’t use steroids… *insert cough*
I’ll call him Mr Buffin’ Fitness, because I can, Mr BF for short.
We have another member who walks around like he is carrying imaginary watermelons. Mr K is one of the big brutes in my gym-world. He has arms the size of tree stumps and legs the size of twigs. He is the poster child as to why friends shouldn’t let friends skip leg day. Add to that a belly that would be the envy of any beer-drinking Redneck and a wannabe goatee and he might be the biggest “member” of them all.
Mr K roams around like he owns the place, sniffing for sweat that doesn’t belong to him. He barks useless advise to everyone within earshot and lifts his leg, as he corrects your form and comments on the number of sets one requires to achieve his ultimate level of athletic physique. If ultimate would be looking like a cross between Groot and that blow up doll from Big Hero 6. His narcissism is mind-blowing and his illusions of grandeur is only rivalled by, well that of Mr BF.
Last week I found myself in the midst of a pissing contest. Technically it wasn’t a contest as there were no swords displayed. It was basically one member blowing off another member.
I was panting over the dumb bell rack between sets. I liked to think my exhaustion was due to my strenuous exercise and not my age. Mr BF walked across the room, flexing his triceps as he passed the mirror. It’s quite amazing to see how many different muscles a person can activate when passing a mirror. He paused at the dumb bells and sort of ignored the sweaty, old guy draped across the rack. Of dumb bells. I did what any decent human being would do when they see a much younger version of themselves, I said “Hi.”
He semi-acknowledged my existence but as I’m not one of his biceps, he kept staring at something behind me. He was looking at Mr K doing bench presses with, what looked like, all the 15 kg discs piled on a sad looking bar. I think I heard it cry. Suddenly Mr BF broke the silence and spoke to me. The air crackled magically with anticipation as Mr BF never speaks to anyone.
“He is such an idiot. Look at him, it’s pathetic, trying to show everyone how strong he is with those heavy weights. He’s such a fucking asshole. He..”
(Let me interject here…I’m only quoting the f-bombs, as they don’t belong to me, but in the spirit of this blog, I’ll sensor them.)
“He walks around like he @##%$ owns the place. So I’ve decided to ignore him. Do you know he actually gave me advise once? The @#$$%. I mean look at him? Does he seriously think I need advise from him? I don’t think I’m better than the next person, but I mean, look at my poster? I’m a sponsored athlete. $@#$% him. When was the last time he looked in a mirror? He’s overweight, but he thinks he’s the man. %#@% he’s so annoying. Maybe we should just remove our shirts, then everybody can judge who’s suppose to give advise to who. #@$%^$#.”
Even though Mr BF has a point, the rant was a bit excessive and it’s obvious he’s got some serious anger management issues. Or maybe he should just lay off the juice a bit. It’s ironic what level of emotion one douche can draw from another. I left the dumb-bell rack without saying a word and just gave a weak smile before returning to my bench. Two things struck me about the rant: (1) Mr BF wouldn’t need to remove his shirt for the showdown with Mr K as he was barely wearing one, and (2) How is it possible for a person to curse like that so early in the day? I was witness to the love-child of a sailor and Abby Lee from Dance Moms.
I should have told him not to sweat the small stuff. I should have told him to relax. I should have told him to take it easy, not to let it bother him as much. I should have told him to step of my toe. I should have told him that I never realised they were both the same, for different reasons. But I was tired and didn’t think he was looking for parental advise. He obviously didn’t want a reply from me, as he was already making love with his reflection and a kettle bell a few minutes later, incident forgotten.
In the end he was just one of many alpha ass-holes pissing against dumbbell racks and treadmills and slow-moving middle-aged men, marking their territory in a gym, at a time when 90% of the occupants are male. No-one actually gives a shit.
I reckon both of them probably thinks that song is about them.