Open Letter to a Gym Owner

(The following was originally written 11/18/1998. In a bizarre turn of events, it became relevant again in G:TBLand yesterday. The objection of its original creator to the posting of this content is noted.)

"We shall overcome.” – Joan Baez

Amidst the topsy turvy world of fashion (one in which, I might add, I ride the crest of every wave), trends come and go as quickly as big Gheorghe heads to and fro the disabled list. One trend, unfortunately, has risen from a blip on our fashion radar screen to a permanent blemish in clothing stores. Call them stretch pants, spandex, lycra, whatever you wish, but remember their potential for devestation.

Lycraholism, defined in Webster’s as the physical and mental addiction to stretch pants, received some notoriety in the early 1980’s, after Olivia Newton-John’s avant garde video “Let’s Get Physical” began to shed light on the use and abuse of tight-fitting athletic gear. However, athletic clothing manufacturers have successfully squelched all recent medical research regarding the phenomenon, as they heartlessly bilk the consuming public and hook them on lycra.

Risking life and limb, I, ace investigative reporter Slim Tuffjam, am passing along an open letter to the fitness industry in an effort to curtail the widespread abuse of lycra. I strongly encourage all who read this to copy my letter and mail it to the manager of your local health club, should that club encourage lycraholism in any form. Congressional measures are currently pending to offically classify health clubs as “Lycraholism-Safe” facilities, in much the same way cans of tuna are deemed as not hazardous to dolphins.

Dear Sir/Madam:

As a contented recipient of the services provided by your fitness facilities, it is with a great deal of dismay that I write this letter. The purpose of my correspondence is to notify you that I will accept the upcoming termination of my membership and look to join a different health club in the area. Having been a member of the club for less than one year, I am well aware that my departure will not cause great emotional distress upon employees or evoke tears from fellow fitness-conscious members.

I would like to point out that my decision to seek another fitness facility has nothing to do with the facility itself or the friendly staff that has gone out of their way to provide me with every possible amenity. Living a short drive away from the gym, I have found it extremely convenient to stop by after work and on weekends to get a good workout. However, any physical satisfaction that I have obtained through working out has been vastly overshadowed by the mental anguish inflicted upon me by the morally reprehensible actions of several people who also work out there.

To ease any fears that might be entering you train of thought, I have not been robbed, beaten up, or harassed, nor have I been the victim of any other type of physical wrongdoing at the hands of these hooligans. Stated bluntly, my complaint is that for as long as I have been attending the gym, I have been an unwilling eyewitness to the quasi-exhibitionist tendencies of guys who see nothing wrong with wearing spandex shorts so tight that I end up knowing far more than I ever should about the composition of their genitalia. When I fail to give 100% attention to the task of staring at the floor, I invariably find myself with a grade-A crotch shot of someone’s unit. The effects are immediate and horrific. My stomach becomes queasy. Waves of nausea cause my body to shudder uncontrollably. Cold sweat pours out all over my body as if a faucet was turned on. An immediate urge arises within me to pummel this person with the nearest blunt metal object, which only slowly subsides as I force myself to reminisce upon unconstrictive clothing trends I can fondly remember from my youth.

I now ask myself (and you also): Are these gentlemen stoked that I have a first-row view of their privates? Are they homosexuals? Am I a homophobe? Am I the one who is out-of-touch by not wearing spandex? Should I slip a dollar in their shorts? Far be it from me to proclaim myself Sheriff of the Fashion Police, but I think I have more than a vague idea of what is appropriate attire in a health club. In my book, any item of clothing that gives a clear, silhouetted view of one’s penis gets a thumb down. To expound matters, it is also common for these characters to tuck in their tee shirts while wearing spandex. What do you say to someone who willfully goes the extra step to ensure an unobstructed shot of their goods? “Nice piece, I can see why you show it off.” Or maybe something like: “Wow! Will weightlifting do that to me?”

At this juncture, I hope you get a feel for the mental and physical rigors I endure every time I head to the gym. I pray to Saint Mary before I leave my apartment each day, begging her to stop this senseless display of meat. But I’m not Catholic, so she ignores me. I have thought of buying blinders to obstruct my view, but they are just not practical for working out. I must do something though to stop my recurring nightmares. In this dream, I’m working out peacefully and alone in the weight room, but when I look in the mirror, I see I’m wearing spandex with my tee shirt tucked in. I immediately run in the bathroom to rip them off, but there is another pair underneath! And then another, and then another… My fruitless efforts to change clothes repeat themselves until my own screams of horror awake me. I lay awake in a frenzied delirium many a night, my heart beating like I’ve been a week-long coke binge, fleeting visions of a dream gone awry gallivanting through my head. I simply lie there, in a puddle of my own sweat, wanting to run out of my bedroom as quickly as possible, away from civilization as I know it, to a secluded spot in a desolate forest where I can lay quietly in a fetal position, wipe tears from my cheeks, and softly call out to the wind: “Mommy.”

I now find it difficult to accomplish the everyday tasks I’ve been accustomed to handling. I loll around on the job. My commute to work is spent in a dazed stupor as I salvage my little strength to keep myself from falling asleep on the subway, lest I scream out in front of fifty strangers in a dream-induced rage: “Be gone, demon stretch pants!” If I do not leave your facilities soon, I fear you will read about me hanging from a rafter somewhere, my stiff body suspended from a noose.

In closing, I realize I would be a liar by saying that I am also offended by women in spandex. I guess I am simply a slightly homophobic man who seeks a fitness facility that eschews genital displays. If I wished to endeavor in these types of voyeuristic activities, I would have joined a Turkish spa. I welcome any feedback you might have as to how a facility such as yours could alter this traumatizing state of affairs.

Thank you.

Regards,

Slim Tuffjam