A Cavalcade of the Olfactory Dimension
We have all been there, at least once in life. The door opens and a special kind of odor slinks its way up your nose. As you make your way around, the smell changes in texture. One breath and it’s hormonal teenage adolescence; another and it is a desperate midlife crisis. But there is always that ever present taste in the air of unwashed bodies, public bathrooms, and poo. The gym.
Staying fit is important, but not the kind of sun-dried tomato fit nor the flavor of the day on instatok, just being active. You don’t need to go to the gym to accomplish this. Just go on a walk, or a hike, maybe ride a bike, it doesn’t take much. The gyms all know this; their business model is based on people not going. This means all the people at the gym are not there to be fit in the medical sense; they are there for another reason, a reason that lingers in the air long after they leave.
All the flavors of ice cream are present, you and I included. While I cannot speak for you, I can speak for myself. I rarely use machines, weights, or anything other than a treadmill. You’d think I am one of those runner types, but no, I struggle running a mile let alone three. I jog and power walk while pretending I am jumping rope. As I sit in my particular treadmill waffle cone, I get a great view of the other flavors.
You have the teen boy groups, loud, boisterous, and rarely lifting, yet somehow they all look shredded or overweight, never the between. There is the boyfriend girlfriend pair, where the guy keeps looking around at the other men suspiciously. The solo girl who is desperate to not be noticed and the woman who desperately is. The older yoked men with personalities the polar opposite to how they look. The rare yoked women who you thought a dude on the first and second take, but not the third when you make eye contact. Often overlooked are the lumpy old people shuffling around that fart when you get too close. And many others.
They each provide a unique bouquet to the overall aroma of the place. It mingles around in the air as the singular fan churns the soup into an ever thickening miasma that clings to every surface, visible and invisible. The little workers scuffle around wiping, sweeping, and cleaning, somehow always leaving the place just as dirty as before, adding an astringent patina.
The restrooms? We don’t need to talk about them. They are forever tainted by their fuzzy neighbors, the showers. Both are mixed and beaten together by the comings and goings, hitchhiking a ride to the outside world. Everybody poops, and some, more than others.
What a wondrous menagerie it is, the gym. Be it a 24, an anytime, or that local powerlifting warehouse. Each, its own unique color, and yet they are still all the same.