Day 102/Day 10: Sweatin' in the Suburbs

The first person who caught my eye was this large, hairy man who, on first glance, seemed quite fit despite his obvious fur issue. But a second look proved me devastatingly wrong. He was that kind of buff that isn't buff at all, it's just fat. Well, fat-ish. His man-boobs were surprisingly well-shaped and could easily be mistaken for pecs. Just like his facial hair line could have been mistaken for a chin. But no one could mistake the hairy, black abyss of his butt crack as he did three sets of squats.

The trouble with the gym is there is always someone fitter than you, so the things that convince you you're hot at home really don't work here at all. I can see why people don't go. There's this one ripped runner lady who is my gym nemesis for this reason. I'm feeling all good and then she walks in: 50 years old, shredded abs, legs carved out of wood. I want to kill her.

So I know how hairy guy felt when Big Muscle Guy came over to chat. BMG is frickin' HUGE. Not fake steroid huge, just I-spend-an-annoying-amount-of-time-in-the-gym huge. Raw egg smoothie huge. He was the Alpha dog of the weight floor today. His version of peeing the corners was talking to every guy in the joint and flexing in their faces. He appreciated being watched by the people on the bikes and treadmills and if someone hadn't noticed His Hugeness, he would stare at you until you felt eyes burning into your brain and did.

Impervious to the BMG was Old School Homo, a dashing character complete with a fake tan, Navy tattoo, well-groomed mustache and skin-tight, shorty short bike shorts. The only thing missing was a sparkly I Heart San Francisco t-shirt. BMG gave him a wide berth.

And then he walked in...

Or someone who looked exactly like him. Which is rare in the 'burbs. Good-looking people don't usually venture that far away from the centre of attention.

Unfortunately for me, Suburban McSteamy came in just as I was finishing up. I only had time to watch him to one warm-up set. Where he bench pressed my body weight.

Suddenly I wanted to pee in the corners just like Sir Musclehead. I checked out my competition. There was an old broad whose mask of misery told me she was at the gym on doctor's orders. She looked like she smoked a long time. Let's face it, she still does. I figured I could take her.

But I was outnumbered by those irritating girls in their mid-twenties – you know the kind – invariably adorned with engagement rings, blond highlights and Lululemon pants, doing embarrassing workouts from women's magazines that always seem to involve random jumping or strange acts with the rubber tubing. Girls like that are unpredictable. They're liable to start Tae Bo-ing or Boxercizing or busting out moves they learned at Bikini Boot Camp. It's not worth it. I cut my losses and left.