There are certain things that annoy me about going to the gym, and 99.9 percent of those things are actually people.
And this is probably the other .1 percent.
But seeing as I do not own the gym or live in a serene bubble of immunity from stupidity, I put on my big girl yoga pants and sports bra—not hard, considering I’m probably wearing them anyway—and deal with them. However, there are general annoyances and then there are things that just don’t need to happen.
I bring this up because of one particular instance in the cardio room the other day in which I was on the stationary bike positioned in front of the treadmills. Seeing as I was the only one in there, I put on a HAZMAT suit to grab the TV remote to turn on something good to distract me.
Now let’s just say that there are a few members of the gym that everyone knows to be weirdos.
I don’t mean to sound harsh, but these are the people that when you see their car in the parking lot, you figure your cardio will be ducking away from their conversations about diminishing pension plans, the color of their bruised and battered toe nail or anything else they can complain about.
On this particular day in question one of those gentlemen was on the treadmill behind me, drinking coffee while strolling along. Yes, he sips coffee while walking on the treadmill.
All of the sudden a horrible stench wafted through the air. It was only the two of us in the cardio room, so I knew that this guy had farted. Now I know things can slip out from time to time, so I held my breath for a second or two and dismissed it as no big deal.
But then it happened again. And again.
There is only so much one can take, so I started glancing behind me in that subtle, “I know you just farted and I’m trying not to gag” way I hoped would prove effective despite a history of ineffectiveness.
When another odorous breeze wafted up a minute later, I took to the less-subtle but often more effective “what the hell is your problem, dude?” gesture of pulling my T-shirt up over my nose in hopes of eeking out a gasp of fresh air.
At that point the Fart Factory gave a little laugh and said, “Ha. Is that me? Sorry about that. Must be the coffee.”
Was that him? The only other person in this room? And “it must be the coffee?” Then perhaps one should refrain from sipping Starbucks while plodding along in a bubble of odorous obliviousness, good sir!
At that point I just removed my shirt from my nose, gave one glance back in my, “I’ll give a small smile now as long as you cut that shit out” way I was hoping would discourage future flatulence through the sheer intensity of my gaze.
Thankfully from that point on the oxygen supply remained flatulence free, and I wasn’t subjected to the paranoia of someone else walking in and thinking that stench was from me.
After all, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you only break a sweat and not break wind. It’s really just common sense—and scents.
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