Gymbalaya: The Ingredients of the American Gyme

If you're like me, you probably eat a lot of Jose Ole microwave chimichangas. That's right, the perfect breakfast side dish. You're also probably a badass, sunglass-wearing cop with nothing to lose but the badge you can't respect anymore. Additionally, it's probably true that your massive guns, bulging pecs, and indecipherable accent are the only things stopping you from completing your toughest undercover assignment to date--teaching kindergarten!

But in all seriousness, have you been working out? For real, man, you look good. Been tossin' some iron around? I know how it is. Working those lats? I hear ya. Dumbbells and so forth. I'm all about making my muscles larger, and I've noticed that a lot of other people are, too.

And with that, I've decided to get my David Attenborough...well I guess it's Oprah's torch now... on, and do a detailed study of all the organisms that inhabit what I'm hoping to sell to the Discovery Channel as the next Planet Earth or Life or whatever: Gyme.

To the discerning observer, Gyme is teeming with varied and plentiful life. On the surface, though, Gyme appears to be fairly homogeneous, which basically means that there are a bunch of bros standing around in backwards hats and ripped t-shirts looking at each other in the mirror. This is the most plentiful creature in Gyme: the guy wearing the backwards retro Cubs hat with the distressed bill and the "2005 NILES WEST FLAG FOOTBALL CHAMPION" t-shirt ripped in just the right places for everyone to see the particular muscle groups he's working that day. This man has an entire closet full of needlessly ruined articles of clothing. Hats, jeans, t-shirts, thong sandals--you name it. There's one shirt that's ripped so that it's four inches thick on the back to show off the lats and traps, and one ripped so that it's four inches thick on the front for the pecs and nipples. And of course, all of them are always Belichick'd (that means sleeveless, ladies). In many ways, the bro is Gyme's golden calf, embodying the arrogant, thickly muscled nature of the bull, except it's more bronze in Gyme.

Looking past the bros and into the cardio section, we can find the Gyme equivalent of the peacock in the Lance Armstrong spinning class guy. He wears the skin-tight spandex outfits and sleek Oakleys that riders in the Tour de France--you know, the 2,200 mile, 21 day road race through the mountains--wear to gain an aerodynamic edge, except he's pedaling a fake bike in place for 25 minutes, flipping through the pages of the latest Men's Health, and listening to his The Lost Symbol audiobook. Much like the peacock, he's all decked out in sweet gear, but he doesn't really do anything and he's basically stuck in one place at all times. Spinning class guy is similar to Pro Shop guy--the one who works out either in a polo from his local course and a Titleist hat (worn forwards--respect the game) or an all-white outfit and a headband.

I'm so fast, I'm so pretty.

Gyme is also rife with the 53 year old woman who isn't fat but isn't not fat either, but still refuses to wear anything but a sports bra. This is the lynx of Gyme--not quite a cougar, but not a housecat, either. Consequently, this is a confusing person, mostly because you can't make fun of her without being a dick. She wants so desperately to be 24 again, but you really can't fault her because she's actually trying to do something about it. Still, let's throw a shirt on unless I have a realistic shot at cross generational romance.

Another peculiar creature is super-intense former high school wrestler who got 5th place at sectionals that one time. He is the Daggett of Gyme. Maybe just a little bit nuts and always giving 115%, former high school wrestler who enjoyed moderate success can be seen wearing full sweats to cut weight, but he hasn't actually needed to for at least 8 years. He's always doing pushups or crunches in between each set, and he has a ton of spunk, but unfortunately, it's now illegal for him to put people in The Clinch.

That was nuts!

A minority population in Gyme that's enjoying a recent boom is the confused hipster. He is the rooster of Gyme. Generally sporting a mid-length mane of curly hair and wearing ironic pastel-colored short shorts, mid-length socks, and a shirt that says something like "What wouldn't Jesus do?," this critter, a vegetarian by principle, can typically be seen smoking outside the doors before coming in. He feels the need to exercise, but he can't get himself to admit it. He's gone so far as to actually enter the gym, but he has trouble going much farther than that. He can typically be seen doing hilariously exaggerated motions with dumbbells and/or wearing 80's Ray-Bans.

Then there are the girls who work out in packs in order to motivate one another, except all they ever do is lean on the machines, answer their phones, and drink Starbucks. These are the koalas of Gyme--social beasts that enjoy Eucalyptus in one form or another, but who don't actually do anything. I defy any of you to observe one of said packs in which each member completes a full set of reps for any exercise - I don't even care if it's the weird thigh squeezing one. They'll typically set up shop at the leg press for a good 15 minutes, presumably because they can take turns luxuriating with their feet up, then move on to lat pull downs, carefully making sure they're only using the minimum weight, then call it a day after pretending to not be able to find an open elliptical.

Finally, there's the pale, skinny white kid with red hair who works out in a dirty wifebeat, Dungarees from 1997, and black combat boots. This, viewers, is the barnacle of Gyme. He does the least work out of anyone in the entire place, yet he isn't there to show off his muscles. He just kind of sits around and every so often he'll throw up a few reps of 75 on the bench, then he'll move over to do some bicep curls, except he looks really tired all the time. He'll be out there for hours on end, doing nothing but wandering around and darkening the bags under his eyes. In fairness, that darkness does make his eyelashes pop.

Of course, there's one final class: the kind of guy I am in Gyme. I fall into the broad category of the bland, sort of like a panda--lacking the ferocity of a real bear, but also lacking the stick-to-it-ivenss of the raccoon. I'll come into the gym wearing my standard mesh shorts I've had since the 9th grade, a different colored t-shirt depending on what my inner mood ring is telling me, and my muddied Asics from the two times I actually tried running outside. I'll set my regimen regularly, decide when I've plateaued, increase my weights, and eventually stop going after two and a half months.

Considering that I've pretty much covered every phyla of Gyme, perhaps it's time now for you to figure out which of these categories you most belong in. You can do so by taking a good, hard look in the mirror... probably not the one in front of the golden calves though, they really like looking at themselves. Also, beware of naked old men in the locker rooms. Their balls are poisonous.

Yours in Christ,
Mike

P.S.--Those illustrations? Oh yeah, let's everybody welcome the newest member of the Chicago Sometimes, Mr. Thomas Glass Jr. Outstanding work, sir.