The BG’s
Hannah started working at the gym around the same time I did and became my first friend there. She was a swimmer in college and majored in exercise. I was on summer break from my job as a school lunch lady, and after getting a part-time job at a local gym, I decided I wanted to be a personal trainer. I had yet to really work out at this point in my life but figured what the heck, if they can do it, then I can do it. Hannah was one of the many trainers I worked with who took me under their wing, teaching me more than I could ever know about exercise, sports, and beer pong. We often worked out together, whether it was pumping iron, using the Arc Trainer, or lifting margaritas before laying in the tanning bed.
One day Hannah and I were working out together, which consisted of her pushing me past my comfort zone while I groaned about it. We would gossip about potential love interests who also happened to be in the gym working out at the same time. Hannah and I were upstairs working on our abs, positioned between two weight lifting areas. I lay on the yoga mat, staring up at her. I was likely annoyed by how long we’d been working out when she pulled out a new exercise from her arsenal. She and the other trainers often did this, likely in an attempt to watch me quiver under the weighted pressure.
Although I had become a certified personal trainer by this time, let’s just say my love for the gym was a bit weak. The same is true of today as well. I’m fine using most of the cardio equipment and even enjoy a Richard Simmons style class every now and then. But I want to be in the back of the class, away from the mirrors, where I can grunt and curse under my breath without offending too many people.
Having to step into the elusive weight lifting area, the one that seems to have a spotlight on it is something I’ll pass on. Every time I walk into that area, even if it’s only to get to the bathroom, I get this feeling like I’ve fallen onto a bright, smelly stage. My heart starts racing, and I’m sweating without even having started my workout. The worst part about this crazy self-absorbed fear is that I actually like to lift weights. It makes me feel strong and gives me a self-inflicting, addicting type of soreness. The physical fatigue I get from lifting weights or going on a long run is my primary justification for taking ritualistic, epsom salt baths. Bath time is when I get to soak my sore muscles, sip wine, and listen to David Sedaris on audiobook.
Hannah told me to lift up my legs and proceeded to throw them from side to side while they were still attached to my torso. The goal was to whip my abs into shape by making sure they held onto my lower body, or else I risked becoming ripped in half. As I struggled with maintaining my composure and form, I felt something rumbling inside my stomach. It was a feeling we like to call the BGs or bubbly gut. The BGs frequent even the sturdiest of stomachs from time to time, for example, after a night of draft beer and Mexican food.
By the time I was going to warn her about the ensuing BGs, it was already too late. The rumble from my grumble had descended to my bumble. She lifted my legs high up into the air, and at the moment before throwing them down like a sack of potatoes, a loud fart seemed to rip from my elastic stretch pants. Hannah let out a small gasp, and her eyes got wide in the way only a fart can encourage. My face began to burn, and we stared at each other for a moment before starting to laugh like a couple of maniacal clowns. That fart was the best workout I’ve ever had.
Looking back, this was not only a shitty situation but a smelly one. And it was not an isolated event, either. One time I let one slip while in a barre class where the students line up, placing a delicate foot onto a mounted bar like dancers rehearsing for the Nutcracker. Another time I was in a relaxing spa yoga class, having just received a gentle massage that worked the kinks and gas out of me.
Every time it’s happened, I’m reminded of the sparkly fact that I’m human. This recognition brings me back from the constant critique of my body and comparisons I make to the instructor, other classmates, or fitness model I stalk on Instagram. Taking a step back even further, it’s easy to see that I’m simply an animal who’s been somewhat domesticated. But I’m still an animal, nonetheless. As humans in today’s society, we’re overly aware and embarrassed by the functions of our body, no matter how necessary to survival they are. And everyone else in that gym or workout class is an animal too. One who farts and poops, sweats and cries. Even the buffest of bodybuilders and fitness models has had to start their workout journey at some point. And my guess is that they’ve had their share of awkward and embarrassing moments, along with plenty of ibuprofen, and a desire to give up.
Working out is hard, and farting is a little too easy. Nothing breaks the mental unease and physical pain of exercise like a rumble from down under. This is why if I ever own a gym, the sound of random farts will play over the loudspeaker from time to time.
Imagine wanting to finally get your life in order and starting the daunting process by joining a gym. You walk in on your first day, clumsily exchanging your keys for a hand towel, then make a bee-line for either the weighted circuit you were shown during your “free session” or the cardio equipment. You put your stuff up and get the machine ready, just like your personal trainer did.
In the moment before you begin, your eyes scan the room. You notice the fitness freaks surrounding you and check to see if any of them return the stare. You see the man with the shaved head, who’s wearing a tiny tank top and working his biceps, which are already twice the size of his calves. Next to him is a woman in spandex, her skin glistening in the light. It would be damn near impossible to pull their eyes away from their own body, but nevertheless, you know somewhere out there, someone is watching you.
Just as you’re ready to get your workout on, an alarming sound makes its way across the loudspeaker. You stop in your gym tracksuit and listen for a moment, realizing what you are hearing is the sound of a deep fart rumbling into this world. Now you really eye the people around you. They all stop what they’re doing for a second, then crack a few grins, shake their head, and focus back on themselves.
Playing farts over the loudspeaker at the gym is a much easier sell than a membership someone will actually use. Hell, it may even get me to the gym.
