There are many kinds of people who frequent the gym, but most of them fall into a few well-known categories. There are the grunting free-weight guys, the Cosmo-reading-on-the-elliptical girls, the dude-you-got-this spotting teams. I belong to the species of girls who bench press, and based on the reactions I get while doing this, we must be a rare group.
Today I arrived at the gym a little before 9, to get in a quick workout before moving on with my day. I like to start my workout with the bench press. I like it because it works a lot of muscles, so that after that everything is a bit fatigued burning with the fire of a thousand suns (just realized Soldado will be reading this) and I can move on to more targeted exercises.
The gym looked the way it usually does at 9 on a Saturday morning: one or two dedicated girls running on the treadmills, and a handful of retirees walking on treadmills or gingerly going through the motions on the circuit training machines.
I walked over to the bench press and began adding my usual weights. I only add 7.5 or 10 pounds to each side, so it’s nothing terribly outrageous-looking. Or even impressive-looking. Frankly, the bar looks kind of ridiculous with such puny weights on it.
I had just finished doing this when a man who had to be at least 70 approached me. In a thick German accent, he said “Let me know if ze bar is too much, and I will help you with it”.
I looked at this frail, thin, elderly man with white hair. Beyond the fact that I, shockingly, know what I’m doing with the bench press and don’t need help, this guy would have been about as useful as a cocktail umbrella in a rainstorm.
Thanks Grandpa, but me and my vagina will manage the bench press just fine!
