How much do I hate the YMCA? Let me count the ways

It’s pretty well known by my people that I hate my gym as much as Elizabeth Wurtzel hates herself when she’s off Prozac. Most people are aware of and may have even attended the chain I detest, the YMCA. Cheap to attend (it is free for me), the YMCA has sucked the marrow from nearly all of its 20 million plus members. Those who have avoided the marrow sucking are part of the increasing over-ninety population of the YMCA membership, mainly because they have no marrow left to suck out.

To put you into my perspective, I’ll give you my breakdown of a routine YMCA experience. I walk in past the homely volunteers who uncannily blend in with the dull surroundings of the YMCA décor and I steal a quick glance at the Pool o’ Child’s Urine to my left. I pace toward the gym and dodge running children, predominantly Asian, and look in to see who’s balling it up on the courts. The usual, Team Knee Brace, whose collective favorite basketball players are now all retired coaches, are neck in neck with Team Yao Ming, whose favorite player needs a knee brace. I reach the doors to the weight room, after I pass the all-white black-belts executing karate moves. I make a mental note to never depend on these folks if there is an all-out YMCA brawl (considering I will probably be the origin of this brawl, I will take out the supposed black belts first to make myself appear intimidating).

Enter into the workout space. Depart from the workout space, take a deep breath and re-enter. In front of you is a collection of exercycles, circuit weights and mechanical weights. Speed past to the free weights and bench area in order to avoid flecks of old man sweat and the White Raven (more on him later). After a short stint on a treadmill, which will inevitably place me into the old cottage cheese zone, named after the scent that emanates from all the cardio equipment due to patron’s lack of or obliviousness to anti-perspirant and deodorant. Then I begin my weight workout. If I’m lucky, my routine will remain unhindered by gaggles of Asians who have no real workout agenda and just take turns trying to top each other on specific machines or socialize in the main workout space because fraternizing is not allowed at the homestead, only math homework.

In between sets I usually take a look around, and always regret doing so. The interior of the YMCA is best described as sterile, which is a pretty apt reflection of the people using the facilities. Smiling is strictly forbidden in the YMCA unless you're Asian or the White Raven, in fact, everyone just looks mad at themselves for being tricked into going to the “Y.” Maybe that’s how it gained its nickname, for all of the why? questions people inevitably ask themselves when they find themselves in the YMCA once more. Why did I come here again? Unless they are holding your child ransom and this is the site of the exchange, there is never an acceptable answer to that question.

About halfway through my workout I like to amuse myself by watching the antics of the White Raven. This man is a volunteer at the YMCA, and he exploits his status by shamelessly macking on every chick in the gym, never factoring in age disparities. His nickname derives from his physical characteristics, which are extremely raven-esque. And yes, he’s white. He usually preys on the unknowing newcomers, because most seasoned “Y” veterans have a White Raven detector. Freakishly ripped for a 40-80 year old, the raven is pretty crafty and subtle with his coquettish intentions, but you can tell the inner raven is quothing “What up whore?”

God forbid you have to go to the bathroom during the workout. If you do find yourself in dire straits, you have two options, the bathroom by the entrance that is further away and wastes precious time because you have to go through the re-entry process or the locker room. The pragmatist chooses the locker room, and regrets his choice immediately. Unless he enjoys feasting his eyes on old man genitalia, which is bountiful in the YMCA male locker room. Then, the locker room is an eye-feast. After leaving that ghastly place, back to the work out, which is certain to be abridged because a) Asians have caught up to your workout routine and it’s going to be about twenty minutes until their done topping each other’s non-Herculean efforts and b) you can't get the ungodly images out of your head.

The next day, you show up in a daze, and wonder why exactly you’re at the YMCA doors again.



-Mozart