Since I’ve started college, I have begun going to the gym, and if you know me, this probably sounds like a lie. But it’s true. I’m not sure if this is some quarter-life crisis, but at least three times a week, you can find me there even though I know I probably–no, definitely–look like a fool half of the time.
But I have to say I’m proud of myself. I got over my fear of going to the big, scary gym. People who are fit and athletic intimidate the heck out of me, but now, at least, I can tolerate being in their presence–well, for the most part. There’s just one subsection of gym-goers, who just really make going to the gym dreadful at times.
Oh, yes, boys, I am calling you out because I am sick and tired of you making the weight room sound like the maternity ward of a hospital. You are not in labor, so why must you sound like you are? Of course, there are some males, who do not make a scene every time they enter the weight room, and I respect you. Sincerely. From the bottom of my heart. But as for you others, you make the weight room a terrifying place with sounds that I imagine would make up the soundtrack of hell, especially when you fools drop the weights on the ground, scaring my faint heart and that of many others.
Seriously. I know I’m not alone in this because many, many, many girls and even professors have expressed disgust for this as well. Despite going to the gym three times a week, I have yet to become numb to your cries of pain? celebration? bragging? (as you can tell, I still can’t figure out what the deal is with the excessive noises). Yet my bravery has been commended for at least standing among you as you lift the twenty-pounder, so heavy in comparison to the mere fifteen-pound weight I carry, oh the intimidation.
But one of these days, if I hear another grunt, sigh, or huff, I might just snap even though right now, I am one of the most passive and timid people to walk on this campus. Regardless, if you wish to protect yourself from the wrath that is mine, please, for the love of God, if you’re going to huff and puff and grunt and sigh, do it at a lower volume to where I can’t hear you over my Broadway show-tunes that I play at a respectful volume on my headphones. I really can’t deal with your UGHs upon UGHs when all I want to hear is Jeremy Jordan’s smooth and dreamy voice sing on the Newsies soundtrack.
This is all I ask from you. Which isn’t much. But I’m sure the only male who will read this will be my father, so I’m sure this note will make no difference. But I needed to say my peace. Thank you.
P.S. To whomever has the audacity to play his music on a speaker of all things, please stop doing that and invest in a pair of headphones. I feel like I don’t have to explain myself here. This is just common human decency.