They put up a bunch of vile signs around the gym, prohibiting the dead lift and the hardcore strength training move called the power clean (not to be confused with anything involving water under high pressure or annoying commercials for bathroom scrubs).
They have been dicking with us over the deadlift since my beloved old musclehead gym hooked up with the crocus-colored franchise chain, but up to now no one has posted signs. I gather some clutch of noisy little punks made themselves tiresome slamming the bar on the floor a few days ago (Greg, who talks kind of swishy but could probably hoist one of these manchildren in each hand, said he asked them to tone it down and “they looked at me like I had two fuckin’ heads”). Some show of authority was demanded, I guess.
I already have to park two big plates flat on the floor so I can get some loft doing a good straight-legged deadlift, since — now that my leg range of motion is almost back — I can stand at the top of a staircase and handily fold at the hips to put my palms on the first tread. Now it’s starting to look as if any incriminating ceremonies like that are out of the question. Because I am damned if I will stop doing them. This morning I tried the feel of a dumbbell in each hand, so that if caught bending double with them, I could just feign that I was doing a flying dog or something.
The thing is that there are no hardcore gyms left in easy shot of my house anyway, and all my friends and a lot of clients are at this one, to which I can drive on autopilot, passing my bank branch (where they fold me to their bosoms when I walk in) and a couple other places I do regular business. Gold’s is a poncey meat market selling overpriced gear, at which I am reliably informed that the men, at least in my local branch, are clannish and treat the heavy end of the weight room as a boys club, and the other glossy chains are full of people in leotards. (I am right there with the masterful Dan Savage when it comes to the sins of the leotarded.)
I just have to work around it. But I expect to see a rack of Kegelcisers in there any day now, given the kind of workout they seem to be encouraging.*
*Yes, I know I am the last person to be scorning a gym for asking us all to be “pussies.” We should reclaim the word, and all that, women’s parts are more rugged than men’s when you think about it, yada yada, and let’s not even think of the petition my cats are going to file, but no other word springs forth when the temporal lobe, taxed beyond endurance, loses its grip on gracious speech. Except maybe feh.