Stratification
in on-campus gym perplexing
Molly Stewart
To my right is an 80-year-old man with an oxygen tank and a walker. To my left
is a cute blonde bouncing up and down in spandex to her pink iPod. And behind
me I hear the loud crash of two hundred pounds slamming to the ground.
Where am I? Why, Frog’s Club One gym, of course. The gigantic cobalt blue
pyramid in the sky as you pass on your way to class is home to a mystifying social
order, where age, sex and beauty separate the barely able to walk from
the brawny beefcakes.
Frog’s is an extremely segregated place. It’s just like the school
cafeteria—where you sit determines your cool factor.
The stationary bikes are reserved for the over-60 crowd. The distinct scent of
BenGay wafts from the row of what are basically chairs with pedals. Canes, walkers,
wheelchairs and trainers helping the seniors “work out” litter the
section like cigarette butts scattered outside the dorms. They both smell and
I’m afraid to touch them.
Next comes the body-builder Schwarzenegger wannabes who grunt like they’re
lifting 1000-pound weights. They wear headbands, basketball shorts and muscle
tees to show off their killer guns.
The buff frat-boyish types drop their barbells down so hard I’m surprised
the old people don’t have heart attacks. The burly jocks cockily walk around
the gym with white terry cloth towels slung over their shoulders and cluster
around the free weights as if they were a bunch of Playboy bunnies.
This boys club is strictly hands-off to those who aren’t 6’2” and
ripped, or at least those who aren’t willing to groan and gasp with exhaustion
as they lift weights to let everyone else in the gym know how “pumped up” they
are. We get that you’re in shape boys, but come on, the weights aren’t
that heavy.
The back room, like those at a strip club, is filled with those who don’t
want to be seen. It’s noisy, dim and safe.
This is where I like to work out, because you don’t get the sense everyone
is watching you. Loud music blares from the speakers and the sound of sneakers
pounding on treadmills fills the room as pale, out of shape people with baggy
gray t-shirts and sweats try to burn off that pizza from last night. In the far
corner is a row of blue mats and round stability balls. People do sit-ups and
exercises on the balls as their bodies twist in awkwardly sexual positions.
Finally, there is a row of elliptical machines the college sorority sisters fill
up as if they were the last two seats at an
Ashlee Simpson concert. Their ponytails swish back and forth as they chat in
high-pitched, mousy voices about how they’re “so into sunglasses
right now.”
After about 30 minutes they get bored and abandon their workouts. God forbid
they break a sweat and smear their mascara.
They retreat to the locker room to fix their hair and makeup after their “killer
workout.” As they leave, they pass the hard-bodied guys and giggle flirtatiously
as they glance over and wave.
Meanwhile, I wipe my sweaty brow as I crank up the incline on my elliptical and
glance at gramps in the bike next to me. He calls me sweetheart and I smile at
his red jogging suit, circa 1983.
Frog’s is a weird place. It’s home to the young and old, the pretty
and not-so-pretty, and those who just want to lose a few pounds. But it’s
also a place where singles mingle, seniors stretch and you always leave feeling
better about yourself. Not bad for a place reminiscent of Kermit.
Molly Stewart is a freshman journalism major.
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