casual ultimate » That Guy.

So when I walk into the gym (every 3rd month unless it’s got a tuesday) and head for the locker room during busy hours, I run into this same scenario. Locker rooms are fully of sweaty naked men, and while that’s fine and necessary after a fashion, I like to give them their space while I’m changing. So as I enter the room I do a quick, eyes-above-belt level sweep of the space to see where the nudists are in order that I may pick a little private space and not have to have some guy’s junk hovering a biscuit away from my forehead while I’m furiously tying my shoes (velcro was made for these situations). These calculations are quite black and white: any garment is acceptable; a towel, a pair of pants, even jockey shorts will suffice to prevent that scenario from happening.

But every so often I run into this same guy (and I’m never looking too carefully at anyone in the room, so I’ve never learned to avoid him) wearing a big sweaty t-shirt around and looking like a sane, rational human being with no outward signs of exhibitionism. Trustingly I end up grabbing a locker next to him, and proceed to pack, unpack, hang things up, turn off my phone, and basically go through the small ritual tasks that prepare one for exercise. And at some point, near the end of all this, I sit down to tie my gym shoes. And inevitably, without fail, this guy, this hairy sweaty, clueless, racquetball playing hog of a man standing adjacent to me, chooses that moment to lean in and reach up to his top-row locker extending his apelike arms to remove his pants from their hook or grab some deodorant or pluck an imaginary apple from the sky and, in doing so, suddenly hikes up his enormous sweaty shirt which reveals his complete nudeness below the waist. And once again, the eerie silence of his junk just hovering there for that infinite stretch as he roots around, unable to find what he’s looking for, perhaps unable to remember why he reached up in the first place, and me getting tunnel vision on my shoelaces, which refuse to behave and end up as one massive jumble of failed knots. And though I know I need to look up at this guy, to look him full in the face so that I know who he is and can avoid him in the future, I don’t—I can’t confront what I might see there. I assume that face to be lined with the creases of guilt for the torment he wreaks on those around him, but just as likely it might be devoid of any recognizable human countenance whatsoever, simian and dull, empty, waiting for the world to change so he doesn’t have to. In the end I sit there until I see his feet shuffle a few steps away, stand up by rotating myself away from him, kick my locker shut and bolt out the door to sort out the mess of my shoes in the stretching area.

I know this may smack of some immature phobia or inability to accept the human body, but I maintain that what this man is doing is just wrong, and violates an unwritten rule of the gym. Men should not wear shirts as their only garment. Absolutely unacceptable. A shirt alone offers no practical function to a man unless it is there in cooperation with pants. I submit that those who violate this simple concept should be universally shunned, kicked out of the gym, and made to wear cutoffs at all times.