If you’re new here: I hate working out.

Still, I joined the gym and have been going 4 times a week for a few weeks now. My thighs, abs, and ass hurt just thinking about them so, you know … progress!

I walk in there with my big over-the-ears headphones and force myself to sit at each machine and do the reps as my body and brain protest loudly and profanely.

I avoid eye contact but, without staring, I observe.

The desk people say empty good mornings to everyone who walks in because it’s too early for them to give a shit about anything except that members scan in.

There are the hardcore assholes who strut in, already sweaty, with their milk jug of brightly colored liquid for hydration. It’s not water and, honestly, I don’t give a shit what it is. It just bugs me that they rinsed out a milk carton to use it as a large, obnoxious gym bottle.

There are men who shave every inch of their body and some who would put a gorilla to shame.

The diminutive men (or, “tiny dancers” as my friend calls them to my eternal amusement) tend to drop their weights with a loud clang disproportionately more than non-tiny dancers. The Napoleon Complex is very real, people. It enrages and amuses me when they drop their weights with a loud grunting exhale so that everyone knows how incredibly macho they are in spite of looking like spider monkeys.

The new members walk around with their trainer while taking uncomfortable sips from their water bottle as they become visibly overwhelmed by the sheer number of machines, assholes, and the insurmountable self-improvement goal they’ve set for themselves.

There is a man I can identify from his body odor alone without even looking.

I’ve seen only a few people wipe the equipment after they’re done.

Also, the assholes love to leave the weights on the equipment so I’m always forced to ask another asshole to help me move them. It’s irritating but I get it — I’m but a tiny, old woman in Assholeville.

Some use the mirrors to watch themselves like Narcissus and some use them to watch others. The ones looking at themselves make me feel embarrassed for them in a way they are clearly not. Secretly, I wonder if any of them get laid on a regular basis because, honestly, they are ripped but repulsive.

I grimaced as I watched one man stretch his rib muscles by lifting his arm, placing his sweaty armpit against the wall, and sliding up and down the wall like a cat at a scratching post. Zero self awareness.

I don’t understand the ones who look at their phones in between every single rep. They may be following some workout program but I suspect they are just checking messages.

The women’s attire range from form-fitting, matching, pro-wear to homeless chic. Some spend the time styling their hair into a cute messy bun and some have bonafide bedhead pulled into a ponytail.

There are definitely more men on the weight side of the gym and more women on the cardio machine side. I hate the cardio side so I am up to my eyeballs in shiny sweat, muscles, arrogance, and testosterone. The few women on that side look like professional competitors so my description remains fairly the same.

Then, there is me — the soft, lumpy woman, dodging pecs and glutes while I bee line for the empty machines I’m getting more and more comfortable using. Fuck me — I am in hell, aren’t I?