Gym rules
Can I get a gym law passed? I have been infrequently going to the gym, nowadays I prefer to sleep than work out (lazy slob), but I still manage to make it there. Occasionally. Okay, rarely. Despite that, I feel there needs to be some athletic wear laws passed at my gym. Probably at all gyms. I would go more often if I was subjected to the following:
Large breasted women in tiny shirts. Now, not just large breasted, these are large women, period. This is the problem. When you’re a chesty la-roo, the angle at which you gaze down your body is distorted. Just because your knockers are obscuring the sight of stomach doesn’t mean that your stomach width does not, in fact, surpass your mammary width or that’s it’s also obscuring the sight of your stomach from the rest of the population. When coupled with a tiny workout shirt the following happens:1) the built-in support bra doesn’t encompass the breasts, causing a plunging neckline revealing your sweaty, tiger-striped, sloppy boobs of excess fat; and, 2) while you can’t see it, everyone else must be subjected to your blue-veined muffin top of a waist that is exposed and flopped over the too tight spandex Capri-length pants. No more tiny shirts.
Women without sports bras. Regular bras don’t cut it. While on the large, busty women subject, it should be a ruling that you invest in two sports bras. And wear them. I’m not obese, but I am busty and I wear at least two sports bras, which are a size too small, when I work out. They cover my gorge-like cleavage while preventing me from knocking my teeth out. I get motion sickness watching you all flounder on the treadmill, boobs all willy-nilly.
Large breasted men in torn shirts. 80’s style ripped sleeveless shirts with holes extending to your waist are not hot! Doubly not hot when you rip the collar off so you look like a poor wrestler. And if you have the ability to flex your ‘pecs,’ I have the ability to call them tits.
Man-boobs are another thing. I have a little heart for overweight men with melons. But when they start moving without your intention, it’s time to strap them down. Take this test: brush your teeth, if your chest and/or gut are impersonating Santa’s bowl full of jelly, it’s time to get some supportive gear going on. I can’t handle the thwack of your gut hitting the polyester track pants.
Grunting. This is one of the worst things. I can stop looking at your wobbly gut, and saggy boobs, but I can’t escape grunting. Knock it down a few notches if your weight is causing you to grunt. And it’s not involuntary. We are not practicing karate, you have no reason to summon the power through grunts. It’s, like, sexual. And that’s revolting! Who wants to frequent a joint where it is definite you will see juiced up men with not much on, lifting so much weight that their faces turn cherry red, veins are popping out their non existing necks, as they simultaneously groan and exhale through puckered lips. I could have sworn you just gave birth. That’s a constipation look right there, an attempted hernia induced orgasm.
Large breasted women in tiny shirts. Now, not just large breasted, these are large women, period. This is the problem. When you’re a chesty la-roo, the angle at which you gaze down your body is distorted. Just because your knockers are obscuring the sight of stomach doesn’t mean that your stomach width does not, in fact, surpass your mammary width or that’s it’s also obscuring the sight of your stomach from the rest of the population. When coupled with a tiny workout shirt the following happens:1) the built-in support bra doesn’t encompass the breasts, causing a plunging neckline revealing your sweaty, tiger-striped, sloppy boobs of excess fat; and, 2) while you can’t see it, everyone else must be subjected to your blue-veined muffin top of a waist that is exposed and flopped over the too tight spandex Capri-length pants. No more tiny shirts.
Women without sports bras. Regular bras don’t cut it. While on the large, busty women subject, it should be a ruling that you invest in two sports bras. And wear them. I’m not obese, but I am busty and I wear at least two sports bras, which are a size too small, when I work out. They cover my gorge-like cleavage while preventing me from knocking my teeth out. I get motion sickness watching you all flounder on the treadmill, boobs all willy-nilly.
Large breasted men in torn shirts. 80’s style ripped sleeveless shirts with holes extending to your waist are not hot! Doubly not hot when you rip the collar off so you look like a poor wrestler. And if you have the ability to flex your ‘pecs,’ I have the ability to call them tits.
Man-boobs are another thing. I have a little heart for overweight men with melons. But when they start moving without your intention, it’s time to strap them down. Take this test: brush your teeth, if your chest and/or gut are impersonating Santa’s bowl full of jelly, it’s time to get some supportive gear going on. I can’t handle the thwack of your gut hitting the polyester track pants.
Grunting. This is one of the worst things. I can stop looking at your wobbly gut, and saggy boobs, but I can’t escape grunting. Knock it down a few notches if your weight is causing you to grunt. And it’s not involuntary. We are not practicing karate, you have no reason to summon the power through grunts. It’s, like, sexual. And that’s revolting! Who wants to frequent a joint where it is definite you will see juiced up men with not much on, lifting so much weight that their faces turn cherry red, veins are popping out their non existing necks, as they simultaneously groan and exhale through puckered lips. I could have sworn you just gave birth. That’s a constipation look right there, an attempted hernia induced orgasm.
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