An open letter to all fitness center regulars:

To the guy who sits on the weight bench watching himself flex in the mirror:

While it is quite impressive that you can make your pecs dance, it would be nice if perhaps that you could do it somewhere other than the only free weight bench. Much as I’d love to forget my five pound bicep curls with my scrawny little arms and simply enjoy the sight of your 26-inch pythons doing their thing, I have a major that requires more than having parents that will toss a successful business my way after graduation and so my time is limited. Your bathroom has a mirror, I believe.

To the girl who uses her time on the treadmill to catch up on phone time:

I know that with classes and homework you don’t have much time to chat with friends on your cell, but maybe the treadmill isn’t the best place to do so. It wouldn’t be nearly so frustrating if you weren’t doing it while walking at approximately three miles per hour for half an hour. Did you know that there are paths outside for walking? Most of which get excellent cell-phone reception?

To the guy who decides to roar triumphantly with every repetition:

I’ll grant that it’s very exciting to be working out. Pumping iron is a raw, manly activity that occasionally merits a joyous grunt. However, I can’t help but be disturbed when, with every curl or press, you roar as though you’re a primal warrior tearing the heart from your enemy’s chest cavity. Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re screaming in pain because you’ve torn something or having a horrific orgasm. Either way, it makes me nauseous.

To the guy who’s obviously just there to check out the ladies:

I can appreciate your desire to observe the feminine form. However, I can’t help but think that perhaps there’s a difference between glancing every so often and purposely choosing the Stairmaster next to the girl with the low cut top and climbing as high as possible so that you can leer downwards at her. I notice. She notices. Everybody notices. Also, your gym shorts are not nearly so concealing as you seem to believe.

To the girl who’s obviously just there to check out the hot guys:

Would it kill you to toss me a pity glance every once in awhile? I know my pale, pasty body is soft and doughy and more akin to a marshmallow than anything resembling a normal human being, but I have feelings too.