Diary of a guy at the gym pretending he understands how these machines work

"One more set, dog. Dig deep. Rock one more set, dog."

I watched as the personal trainer loomed over his massive protégé, mid-bench press.

"Arggh! Effin' tryin, guy!" the bench-pressing man shot back, pumping his loaded barbell up and down. Eventually, he stopped and exhaled loudly.

"Dude," exclaimed the trainer, easing the barbell back onto its stand. "That was some alpha shit."

The protégé got up from his bench, and the two high-fived aggressively, before transitioning into a casual hug and back pat.

"Alpha doggy do-oog," howled the trainer. They laughed.

I peered at them from behind a receptacle for dirty towels.

Perhaps I shouldn't be in this place.

***

This was my third time visiting "the gym." After noticing a bit of pudginess around my waist during one of my fully-nude mirror examinations, I thought I ought to whip myself into shape before swimming trunks season began. Nothing wrong with giving yourself a tune up! Plus, I was always curious as to how I might look with Justin Theroux-style rock-hard abs.

Unfortunately, there was one small impediment to my evolution into a "body hunk" (I believe you can also be a hunk of the mind, but that's neither here nor there). The gym housed a wide variety of machines designed to sculpt, strengthen, and shred.

And I had absolutely no idea how any of them worked.

To my eye, they looked more like rude contraptions a perverted count might keep in some satin draped chamber rather than mechanical aids to physical fitness. So many swings and ropes and pulleys! Isaac Newton himself wouldn't know where to start (and, little known fact, he was as ripped as they come).

I spent my previous two gym visits mostly just milling about, doing lunges in between machines, and occasionally tugging on a pulley while confidently saying to myself, "that seems about right." Then I showered thoroughly and headed home. Not exactly "pumping iron" but at least I was taking in the environment.

Meanwhile, as I dipped into a particularly deep lunge, I noticed the trainer and his protégé leaning against the bench press. The trainer nudged his companion and motioned toward me with a nod.

"Lol," the other man inexplicably uttered as he looked me up and down.

They stared at me as though I was some sort of misfit, someone who wouldn't feel at home in a place of athletics. Where would they get that idea? Let me guess: is it because I don't have one of their precious stylized "chin beards"? Or because, unlike them, I'm not wearing an awful, neon "tank top" and prefer the comfort of my beige mock? Or is it because I haven't actually "exercised" in the 45 minutes I've been here?  Nonsense! I fit in just as well as they do.

To prove this point, I decided to stroll over and initiate conversation. "Greetings boys! Fine day to get the blood pumping!"

The two shared a look.  "Uh, yeah dude," said the trainer.

I approached a particularly complicated, vicious-looking machine. "Well, if it isn't my old nemesis. I use this one so often I may as well call it my second home, ha ha. Hours upon hours I've spent on this thing. I'm obsessed with it, really."

"The Glute Machine?" asked the trainer.

"Yes, the Glute Machine," I replied, not knowing what that means in any way. "You fellas use this puppy a lot?"

The trainer scoffed. "Um, not really, bro."

I gave the pair a knowing look. "Hm. And here I was thinking I was amongst fellow gym nuts. Guess not."

I headed for the showers with a big grin on my face. Their puzzled faces said it all. I had won the interchange. I belonged.

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