GYM HORRORS: So Bad, I Had To Inform The Staff

It’s been a while since I’ve written up one of my gym horror stories, but sadly, I think that’s more a sign of my lackadaisical workout routine than it is of improved hygienic awareness. People are still disgusting, and never was that more evident than today when I headed to the gym and encountered a lapse of cleanliness so foul that I had no recourse but to actually talk to a staff member. And people who know me know that I’m not one of those people. I’ll complain and roll my eyes, but I rarely go running to the authorities. This time, however, I had to do what was right: narc. It was either that or barf.

For those of you who remember my last story, it may come as no shock that at the center of today’s gag-a-thon was none other than the sweaty dreadlocked dude who left a puddle the size of Lake Erie on the exercise equipment. Yes, this awful, awful man was back, and as hard as I tried to push him out of my mind, it was simply too hard to miss him, what with his colorful American flag parachute pants. I kid you not. He looked like a one-man tribute to Super Bowl pre-shows. Either that or some homeless version of Captain America.
Nevertheless, as soon as I saw him, I immediately felt the cold hard tug of unrelenting disdain. Rather than work myself up into a tizzy though, I decided to simply stay way the hell away from this guy, lest his sweat hemorrhage completely sully my afternoon. I stayed to my end of the gym, and he, well, I don’t really know what he did because he was entirely too awful to keep tabs on.
Well, I did my thing, went downstairs to the cardio section, and cranked out twenty uninspired minutes on the elliptical machines. I had completely forgotten about this perpetually damp man, but when I returned to the locker room to gather my belongings, there he was, standing over the sink actually washing himself. What’s this? Soap? Water? Some semblance of hygiene? It was a miracle! Granted, he was still a sweaty mess, and regrettably, he was now a shirtless sweaty mess, but at least he was touching soap.
As I had just finished up some cardio, I too was a sweaty mess, and in an effort to both cleanse myself lightly and cool my face down (which was slowly turning the hues of a ripe tomato), I found a sink as far away as possible from the guy and splashed water on my overheated gourd. It was then that I couldn’t help noticing that this jerk wasn’t so much washing himself as he was washing a cloth. Kind of gross, I thought. Who washes their sweat rag in the sink? Hand soap is hardly detergent. And besides, it’s a public sink. That’s just… vile.
But then I noticed something else. This dude’s towel was draped over his shoulders. Whatever he was using to sop himself up was on his back, not in his hands. That’s right. He didn’t have a little sweat rag. What that man was cleaning in the sink —  the public sink —  was none other than HIS UNDERWEAR!!!
Now, I’m not talking about boxers or boxer briefs or anything like that. I’m talking about tiny, gray tighty-whities!!! IN THE SINK!!! And you know what that means: splashing. Yes, the water hits his underwear, bounces onto the counter, onto the faucet, ONTO THE FAUCET KNOB — I could go on. Normally, I’d now want to say “Who knows where those have been?” but the problem is that it’s very apparent where they’ve been: his ass, his balls, and everywhere in between. Literally. Heck, I’m not even convinced gray was their natural color.
As you can imagine, I was practically nauseated by this, and just so you don’t get too grossed out, rest assured that the guy was not buck naked. He had a bathing suit on. Clearly, he had just exercised in his underwear and wanted to freshen them up for some afternoon usage, but that just left me wondering two things: A) At this point, why not go commando? and B) if you truly must wear underwear the rest of the day, why not bring an extra pair? It’s better than standing there washing the perspiration and ass juice out of your knickers.
But it gets worse.
I immediately retreated away from the area, gathered my keys and wallet and sundry other items, and when I left the locker room, I again had to pass by the sink area. The guy had concluded the washing phase and was now attempting to dry his soon-to-be-caky briefs. Yes, he had turned on the nearest hand dryer and was now holding his underwear beneath the currents of hot air, effectively blowing all the funk from his junk into the surrounding air. It was kind of like watching dandelion seeds floating off into the wind. Except instead of seeds, there were pubes.
Now, I know I may be sounding a tad OCD about this whole thing, but honestly, if you were to see this guy, you’d also have the same reaction. I decided I didn’t have to put up with this any more. I pay almost forty damn dollars a month for this place (a real exclusive gym, as you can tell), and I would NOT stand for such blatant disregard for hygiene in public areas. I mean, what was this? BALLY’S? As I walked out of the gym, I stopped by the front desk and told the attendant, “Just so you know, there’s some guy in the locker room washing his underwear in the sink. And it’s like a really nasty, sweaty guy. Could you put a sign up in there telling people not to wash their clothes in the sink?” The dude was disgusted. He said they would be on top of it right away. My guess is that nothing will change. I swear though, if I see such shenanigans again, I’m gonna start a crusade…