The Grunt

Do you grunt? That situationally specific, quasi-erotic, quasi-excruciating sound heard echoing through the gym?

I am typically *not* a grunter. If I ever do let one slip, it typically blends into the white noise of the packed club, stifled by the more manly grunts in the sweat-laden, testosterone-thick free weight room.

But today I worked out at the gym in my building. It’s nice, but small, and doesn’t have enough mirrors (a topic for another time). I started my workout with the entire gym to myself. Dark and echoey, I lifted, lunged, and pressed, bopping along to the music playing a little too loudly in my crappy sony earbuds.

Some guy walked in ruining my groove around the middle of my second set. Bastard. But I soldiered on in our awkward propinquity. After his stretches and my lunges he headed to the gazelle elliptical thing and I moved on to pushups.

Big girl pushups, bitches. F- yeah!

I got through 13 with no problem. 14 was a struggle, and on 15 I lost it.

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAGH!

The unintentional grunt. It echoed. So. Awkward.

He turned. I could feel it. What was he thinking? What a freak? What a hot, grunting muscle-y chick? Doubt it.

While moderately embarrassed, I just got up and finished my workout, with a little less exuberance than before. I couldn’t afford another slip up. Not because he cared, but because I do not want to slip into the grunts-at-the-gym club. No one likes the gym grunter. I cannot be one of them.

So tell me, are you a gym grunter?