The Machine Hog: A Gym Story

       Okay, 30 or so minutes at the gym have passed—with the help of a podcast—almost pleasantly. And after pushing and pulling in various directions, on a bunch of machines, I was ready for some leg work.

      Moreover, as I have made my peripatetic wanderings among the machines, I note that the guy on the leg machine—one of a kind at this modest gym—has been sitting at it more or less since I entered the gym. He should be moving on soon.

      But he shows no signs of moving on, or of using that machine for that matter.

      He is certifiably young. His clothes are all appropriate—with white-on-black Under Armour logos everywhere. He’s got a little spray bottle to wipe down anything he touches, or anything a predecessor may have touched. Can’t be too careful nowadays—only five years after COVID, which was not spread by touching stuff.

      The young man has covered the machine’s seat with one of those tiny towels, employed, I surmise, to protect his tush or the tushes of future users of this machine or the tushes of all of humanity from any contact with another’s sweat or whatever volume of another’s sweat might penetrate the artificial fabrics that comprise Under Armour leggings.

      Although, unless touching a screen with your finger is more taxing than it appears, this fella has not done anything as long as I’ve been looking at him that might elicit perspiration. 

      The young man on the leg machine sits. He swipes. He stares at the screen of his iPhone. He occasionally smiles at something he sees there.

      The folks who monopolize particular machines usually say they are “doing reps.” But if any “reps” have been accomplished by this young fellow on this machine, they were accomplished way back in time.

       I was recently in Costa Rica. I am reminded of the indolent balls of fur you would occasionally spot there up in a tree, not moving: sloths.

      I walk over to the machine that young man has commandeered and give him a serious but not entirely unfriendly look. This is intended to communicate that it is time for him and this particular leg machine to part.

      But he is apparently not fluent in the language of looks. He ignores me.

      I was not raised, unless the working class was somehow being exploited, to confront. But I manage to work up the gumption to say something along the lines of: “Mind if I use this machine for just a bit?”

       He disengages from his cell phone for long enough to say: “I’m not done working here.” Then his eyes return to his phone.

*     *     *

      Gyms have not been popular with adults all that long, perhaps not long enough for an etiquette to develop. And machine hogs—gym sloths—have become a problem for a lot of us.

      I know space is often at a premium, but would it not help to scatter about some chairs with signs above them saying, “Please sit on chairs not the machines while checking your phones.”