An Open Letter To The Grunting Man At The Gym 

I was beginning my first set of squats when I noticed you. You were in the corner of the gym, wearing ENORMOUS headphones, struggling to lift a very large barbell. You were grunting. I swear I could almost see blood dripping from your eyes.

 

I am writing to you, dear sir, as a concerned and annoyed citizen of this sports club. I am worried about you, Mr. Grunting Man. I’m worried you have a hernia, but I’m also worried that you, you festering pile of cow dung, can also not fucking hear or see.

 

You’re not even doing bicep circles, Mr. Grunting Man; you’re not even doing dead lifts. You are grunting, wildly, while barely doing anything at all. We all know how to lift, Mr. Grunting Man! That’s why we are the gym! What you are doing are exercises for babies!

 

Oh, Mr. Grunting Man. I see you there, lifting hundreds of pounds while you do... shrugs. Why do you make such intensely distressed sounds whilst you pull the weights to work your... lats? Why do you suffer so vocally while you do... calf raises?

 

 

You seem so blissfully unaware of those around you. You make these vile sounds while surrounded by so many people; the crowd gives you subtle side eye while they go about their merry way. They take momentary breaks to be disgruntled with your behavior and interrupt their sets.

 

Or, perhaps I am wrong in this assumption of ignorance. Perhaps you do indeed see the people around you, staring. Perhaps you’ve simply misinterpreted our angry glances for idol worship. I have to wonder if you see me planking, looking at you and then looking to my gym companion, and then back at you. Do you think we think you are attractive? Do you think we are interested in you, you show-offy piece of shit?

 

 

If my latter assumption is to be correct, allow me to clarify the situation at hand: We all thoroughly despise you. We, the patrons of this gym, hope you pull a muscle for the sole reason that you’ll no longer bother us with your vocalized strain. Everyone knows who you are and no one is impressed with you. We all kind of want to punch you in the face a little bit.

 

Why has your neck receded into your chest like that of a turtle? Is your neck beneath the surface or has it disappeared entirely? Have you no neck, Mr. Grunting Man?

 

Mr. Grunting Man, how are you so top heavy? How do you not topple over from the sheer mass on top and the skinny legs below? We see you try to hide them in your baggy sweat pants and tight t-shirt. We all know you bought that shirt at The Baby Gap.

 

Your pea-sized head and muscled shoulders are wildly disproportionate to the rest of your body. It is very confusing. It is unnatural, much like the strange sounds you make.

 

You aren’t in good enough shape to make the sounds you make. This is the New York Sports Club, not training for the Olympic games. Who exactly do you think you are?

 

Mr. Grunting Man, we don’t understand why you put a resistance strap between your back and the flat bench. Why don’t you just add more weight to the barbell you are lifting? Why the resistance strap? If it’s so difficult, if it causes you to grunt like a wild boar in heat, why don’t you just take the strap off?

 

 

This isn’t your space to grunt at will. We’re all wearing headphones and can still hear you struggling for the world to hear. Chill out, Mr. Grunting Man. Life isn’t that hard. Don’t act so entitled to this gym. Don’t pretend your workout is more important than anyone else’s. We’re all here to get fit.

 

Your grunting is only making it difficult for the rest of us to concentrate. There are signs everywhere that explicitly tell you to refrain from disturbing other patrons with your vicious mouth-noises. And yet, you continue to grunt. And we continue to judge you.

 

Oh, Mr. Grunting Man. Will you please kindly shut the fuck up so the rest of us can work out? We’re all super over it. We have dead lifts to do.