On Observation

At the gym at school, you are responsible for wiping down the equipment you use when you finish. For reasons probably including cost and convenience, instead of hand towels or rags, paper towel dispensers are placed sporadically throughout the gym to use for this task. To me, it seems common sense that little paper towel is required to wipe the face and arms of an elliptical machine or the seat of a stationary bike. I watch people pump out lengths and lengths of paper towels, fold them over and over into thick squares, and this makes me cringe. I of course agree with the notion of cleanliness and sanitation, but some of these people have no evidence of sweat--their t-shirts are not drenched with pooling sweat, but alarmingly dry. Yet they find the need to be so carelessly wasteful. While I would not call myself an activist, though I am trying to be more conscious about the Earth's resources, I feel, however, that anyone could recognize that a length of paper towel that is twice one's own height is more than sufficient to take care of the residue left by one's sweaty palms.
When I am on the elliptical, I have nearly a full 360 degree scope of vision, and no one is safe from my observant and critical eye. The machines face a panel of mirrors, and I observe my fellow gym-goers with interest. There is the girl down the row from me with spandex shorts and hoop earrings. Grad students hunch over bicycles, text books open in front of them, highlighters in hand. Nearly everytime I am there, there is a large man who always wears the same outfit: gray cotton shorts and a white t-shirt he has cut the arms out of. When he is on a stationary bike, he pumps hard, occasionally standing up, and shoutign "HA!"--a sort of military sounding, grunting noise. People who are not accustomed to this look around the gym to see where the sound was coming from. Everyone is using an iPod, banded around their arm or clipped to their shirt, and some take out their ear pieces as they glance around. Other days, he uses the elliptical. There are different varieties of ellipticals at the gym, and he and I prefer the same kind. When he ellipticals, he does so vigorously. He keeps his arms lifted above his head most of the time, matching the motion of his legs. He is a big sweaty man, little hair, but a thick white mustache tops his upper lip--much like the kind my own father had when I was very young (besides the obvious color difference :) ), and I try to keep my distance. This is not always possible, as you must sign up for a time slot on the machines, and I have not yet learned his name in order to not pick the one beside him.
You know, in this particular case, my judgmental eyes will look away; I grant him permission to use as many paper towels as he feels appropriate.
The track is another matter: you need to know the rules of the road to use it. I get lost in my head when I'm running, which is why the track is a very useful tool: no matter how far away you get mentally, you can't get too far away physically--the track keeps you on course. There are suggestions hanging above the lanes of the track that read "walk," "jog," "run." To me, these merely indicate that the slowest moving people stay toward the inside of the track. You must always be under the assumption that you are the slowest person on the track. Until someone comes up that you must pass, stick to the inside lane. Sorority girls run the tracks in groups of four or five, all with various event t-shirts. They spread across the track and everyone else squeezes by, pressed against the wall. I see two older women nearly every day. They are tan, fried and dyed hair pulled back with scrunchies, tiny waists. They wear the same outfits every day, which I always wonder if they wash. They are both tall and long-legged, pushing each other to run laps on the track. Another girl I see everyday is my friend. We have never spoken, but while I am stretching I will see her run by. We will nod at each other in acknowledgment. She is taller than me, but otherwise we are much the same. We run the track. We strap our iPods to our left arms. We have extra hair ties on our left wrist. I think she usually outruns me, though. When I'm running, I try to keep track of my laps. I see dust clumps on the floor. I see the people walking outside, on the path below. Sometimes it's raining or snowing or sunny and I see that, too. I see people playing volleyball on the basketball court or some playing basketball on the basketball court. Sometimes I see AJ Ratliffe down there, the basketball player from our team last year, who left of mysterious personal problems. He is unmistakable with "AJ" tattooed across his bicep. With all these distractions, I often forget the lap I am on. I have my own set of rules in how to deal with track time. For situations such as this, I go back to the last lap I remember counting and start over from there. I usually have a number in my head of how many I need to run that day--16, 24--and I feel uneasy stopping before I am positive that I have reached this number.
I walk a few laps after a run, watching the people pass by, a woman with no shoes and her work clothes on outwalks me. People doing yoga and core strengthening near the track on blue mats. An employee spraying down the blue mats as fast as he can, and glaring at the students as they take them down from the wall and use them. I understand this feeling. When I worked at the pool, I would have the whole deck cleaned up, new towels on the table, toys and noodles in their respective bins, and it would last 5 minutes. At the Limited, I fold a stack of sweaters, ready to close, and someone comes in and pulls one from the middle of the stack. It is infuriating, and seems like a personal offense. Of course, the sweaters are there to be looked at, the gym mats there to be used, but I understand the sentiment.
A lot of people to see at the gym.