It’s the Pitts: Do you work out?

The local gym is now the new country club, and people are being judged by which gym they belong to. 

This hit me when I was runover as I was going to the hardware store by a spandex clad gentleman who ran right into me because he was talking on his phone and had his nose up in the air like he was high society or something.

“Oh, excuse me. I’m sorry old chap, but I’m late for my pilates class,” he exclaimed.

The gym happens to be right next door to the hardware store, which makes for an interesting clash of two cultures. 

The guy was wearing a headband, Fitbit watch and was carrying a bottle filled with a slimy green liquid, which I assumed he drank. The haughty gym-goer stooped so low as to speak to me, the lowly hardware aficionado. 

“I haven’t seen you around here. Do you work out?” he asked, scanning my body from head to toe while shaking his head in disgust.

“I sure do, seven days a week,” I replied.

“You certainly don’t belong to my gym or I’d have seen you around,” he said. “What’s the name of your gym?”

“It’s called the ranch,” I answered.

“Hmph. Never heard of it. Is it nearby?” he asked.

“It’s about 15 miles from here,” I said.

“You really should apply for a membership to my gym, that is, if you qualify of course,” he continued.

“Of course,” I replied.

“As a member, you can use any of our state-of-the-art machines. For instance, our treadmills allow you to run in place while talking on your phone and streaming a movie. For a small additional charge, you can sign up to participate in our pilates, spinning and yoga classes,” said the uppity gym jock.

“You keep referring to it as ‘my gym.’ Why are you hustling gym memberships? Do you own the place?” I asked.

“Oh no. It’s just that my gym is running a special promotion, and for only $39 per month you can be a member and get an official T-shirt signifying your new-found status,” he said. “And for every five new members I sign up, I get a free month’s membership fee, a headband and a mango-beet smoothie.”

He continued, “As a new member, you would qualify for the same program. That is, after you pass our rigid screening process.”

“I’m sure I could use the status I’d gain by joining your prestigious gym, but mine is free,” I replied. “And I don’t have to drink the green yuck or buy the leg warmers or headband, and honestly, can you picture me in a spandex leotard? Also, I don’t really have time for yoga or pilates, and I threw up on the carousel at the county fair so I think the spinning class is definitely a non-starter.”

“But are you really getting a proper workout at this ranch place?” asked Mr. Spandex. “You certainly don’t look like it. From the looks of your body, I suspect your abs and lats could use a lot of work. We have an excellent coaching team, and I’m sure we have a more modern, up-to-date apparatus to work out on. What’s your favorite machine at The Ranch?”

“I’d have to say it’s a Bobcat, but it’s a rental,” I replied.

“Hmph. I’ve never heard of it,” he said. “Do you have a climbing wall?”

“No, but I do have to climb a fence every once in a while when I’m sorting,” I said.

“Might I ask how much you can lift?” he asked.

“Well, it depends on how much rain we get,” I replied. “In a real wet year, I might have to lift and throw 400 pounds, but if we have a bad year with no grass, I might only have to lift and throw 300 pounds. I also work out by lifting railroad ties, heavy sacks of grain and cement and by digging postholes.”

“That’s certainly an unorthodox workout regimen,” he stated. “What’s the main staple of your exercise regimen?”

“I’d have to say fencing,” I responded.

“Oh, after watching that sport during the Olympics I’ve always wanted to try it. Please do tell me more,” said the suddenly excited gym snob.

“Well, it’s something you and your wife can do together, but it’s dangerous, especially if your wife is mad at you,” I said. “See all of these cuts and lacerations on my arms and hands? They’re all from fencing with my wife.”