Gym-azing Characters, Part 2: Now With Even More Reasons to Stay Home

 

 After spending just a little too much time observing the oddballs in Part 1, I realized: wait, there’s more. So much more. 

Welcome back to the Iron Jungle, where the weight is heavy, the mirrors are judgmental, and the people? Oh, they’re spectacular.

The Mayor

This guy knows everyone. EVERYONE. He knows your name, your kid’s name, your ex-wife’s name, and somehow remembers your dog’s birthday. He struts through the gym like he’s campaigning for reelection. Everyone gets a fist bump, a nod, a “How’s your shoulder since that surgery in ‘19?” He talks more than he lifts, but no one questions it. Why? Because The Mayor is too busy building his kingdom one handshake at a time. There’s a chance he’s never completed a full set in his life, but his popularity poll numbers are through the roof.

Grunt Guy

This human foghorn believes that volume equals power. Every rep sounds like he’s birthing a planet. Grunt Guy doesn’t lift silently—he lifts with sonic booms that register on the Richter scale. The worst part? He’s not even lifting that much. The grunts start when he’s adjusting the seat on the leg press. Buddy, calm down. We’re lifting iron, not storming the beaches of Normandy. We get it. You want attention. But this isn’t primal scream therapy, it’s a gym. Keep your inner gorilla to yourself.

Slam Weight Down Kid

Crash. Bang. BOOM. That’s not the sound of progress—it’s Slam Weight Down Kid announcing his dominance like a toddler with cymbals. He finishes every rep with the grace of a piano falling out a window. The floor shakes, the walls tremble, and someone inevitably yells, “Was that an earthquake?” No, Bob. It’s just this dude dumping 45-pound plates like he’s working at a junkyard. He slams, flexes, and walks away like he just solved world hunger.

Loud Hum Guy / Out of Tune Whistle Guy

It starts softly. A hum. Off-key, inconsistent. Then comes the whistle. Slightly wheezy, out of tune, and ear-splitting. It’s like someone hired a kazoo to perform a tribute to Mariah Carey. Loud Hum Guy thinks he’s in a private music video, even though we’re all unwilling extras in his tone-deaf nightmare. Oh, and he’s always wearing earbuds with the volume cranked so loud we can hear every bass drop from 20 feet away. He sings, whistles, slams, and grunts. He is the full gym audio package, and we’re trapped in surround sound hell.

Uncoordinated, Out-of-Sync Gym Class Girl

Every group class has her. The one person who defies tempo, rhythm, and physics. When the class lunges, she squats. When the class squats, she’s doing jazz hands. It’s like watching a one-woman interpretive dance based on confusion. Bless her for trying, but if the instructor says “step left,” and you step right, every single time, maybe it's time to reevaluate. Or start your own genre of freestyle cardio chaos.

Always Late and Doesn’t Care About Exercise Class Girl

You’ve warmed up, you’ve stretched, you’ve started. Then—BAM—she waltzes in, 12 minutes late, holding a latte. She unrolls her mat like it’s a red carpet event and positions herself dead center, blocking everyone’s view of the instructor. No warm-up, no shame, just pure main character energy. And 30 seconds later, she’s checking her phone. She’s not here to sweat—she’s here to be seen. It’s Pilates, not a VIP lounge.

Tag-Along Guy

You’ve seen him. Lurking. Leeching. Tag-Along Guy never works out alone. He attaches himself to some unsuspecting gym-goer and mirrors everything they do. You curl, he curls. You squat, he squats. You breathe, he breathes louder. Worse, he never brings his own plan. Just, "Whatcha doing next, bro? Mind if I jump in?" Yes. We mind. Go develop your own identity, preferably far away from my dumbbells.

Sit-On-A-Machine-All-Day Guy

Ah yes, the human paperweight. He occupies the leg press like it’s his private office. He’s not lifting. He’s scrolling. Dating apps, fantasy football, maybe applying for a mortgage—it’s hard to tell. Occasionally, he’ll half-heartedly push the platform once, then go back to texting. If you ask to work in, he looks at you like you just asked for his Netflix password. It’s a gym, not a co-working space, pal.

Steal-Your-Machine Girl

You step away from the lat pulldown for exactly 14 seconds. You’re still dripping sweat, towel on the bench, water bottle nearby. It’s obvious you're mid-set. And yet—there she is. Already seated, earbuds in, acting like this isn’t breaking several unspoken gym laws. Steal-Your-Machine Girl never asks. She assumes. She doesn’t even look up. You’re left hovering like an awkward ex, debating whether to say something or just passive-aggressively wait until she notices but she never does - never will.

The Talker

You see him coming. You try to avoid eye contact. You fake a phone call. You even contemplate crawling under a bench. But it’s too late. The Talker has locked on. You’re now trapped in a story about his dog’s gluten allergy and his cousin’s ACL surgery. You haven’t done a set in 15 minutes, your muscles are cooling, and your soul is slowly leaving your body. He means well, but if talking burned calories, he’d be Mr. Olympia.

Strange Exercise Girl

She’s not following any known workout regimen. She’s not even following logic. One foot on a BOSU ball, one dumbbell in the air, doing something that vaguely resembles a ballet pose mid-exorcism. She’s lunging in spirals, squatting on tiptoe, and doing shoulder presses while humming. Her moves are a mix of Cirque du Soleil and a late-night infomercial. You stare, not because you want to, but because your brain refuses to process what it’s seeing without confirmation. Are you witnessing a new workout trend or a performance art piece?

Well, there you have it. A fresh crop of fitness misfits who make every gym visit feel like a sociology experiment and a noise violation. We judge because we care, but more likely because we’re bored. Next time you're at the gym, look around. You can’t spot these people and hope you're not one of them.