I've been avoiding the gym since the start of the year because the healthclub I go to advertised a New Years promotion, so I knew it would be plagued with resolutioners. Today was too cold to run outdoors, so I embraced the suck and went anyway. About 20 minutes into my hour long tango with the elliptical, an older (late 40s, early 50s if I had to guess), rotund man sidles up to the machine next to mine (there were 8 available) and proceeds to spend 3 minutes wiping it clean with the gym-provided wipes. To make matters worse, he looks over at me, nods, smiles, and says something I can't hear over my music. I close my eyes and keep pumping.
Moments later, I find myself struggling to breathe as I'm overcome with a wave of cheap cologne. Fatso to my left has completely engulfed himself in it. I can't help shooting a look of disgust his way, and as I do, I notice he's wearing a fanny pack. I start to wonder if it's too late to abandon my machine for another.
Regardless, I continue to chug away, but it's not long before I'm assaulted with the verminous stench of Fatso's recycled air. Not even five minutes into his workout, the mouthbreather's panting. His machine is on a resistance of one and an incline of 3 -- which is a joke -- and he takes frequent breaks, dragging his workout out when I'm internally praying for him to quit.
He quits (not soon enough, sadly). 20 minutes later, I finish my workout and head to the weight floor to get some light reps in after stretching. Fatso approaches and asks, "Good workout?" I nod, turn away, and make sure it's apparent I wish to ignore him, but he hangs close. I'm annoyed to have an audience for my workout, especially when the peanut gallery smells so noxious, but whatever. I just want to finish.
But the last straw was Fatso, who's been busy toweling his gross sweat for a good 10 minutes, interrupts once again to say "you know, you'd be really pretty if you wore make up."
Didn't even finish my set. Just gave up, evacuated, and did calisthenics at home. So fucking annoyed.