I saw you this morning. I was on the treadmill. You were on the bench press. I was sweating to Jay-Z, brushing the dirt off my shoulders, running like Kirstie Alley to a Dunkin Donuts convention. You, girly man, in your teeny little muscle shirt, were preening and posing in front of the mirrored wall.

Why, dear gym jock, do you ogle so steadfastly? It’s so very obvious that, while you think you’re putting on the facade of paying careful attention to form and physique, you’re really just enjoying the sight of your own reflection. You suck in your paunch, cinch up your special leather gloves, and think, “Yes, I am a sexy bitch.”

Every once in a while you’ll meander over to the elliptical machine for 3 minutes of lazy cardio. And then you’ll squat a few times, being sure to get a glimpse of your glutes looking oh-so-hot in the modified board shorts you chose especially for today’s trip to the house of holy hamstring worship.

And though you’ve got more beef on your arm than bicep, you will occasionally do slow reps to “impress” innocent bystanders/victims. You’ll lift once, and then twice. You’ll take sixty seconds to rest and reflect on you’re ahnold-like anatomy, and then you’ll lift twice more. And then, you’re spent.

I, meanwhile, am huffing and puffing like the wolf that’s come to blow the house down. You’ll ogle me inappropriately, feeling it’s your right b/c you are a gym jock - a man who is not afraid to stroll around the equipment, chest puffed out, prouder than a peacock.

But you know what dude? You should really keep the eyeballing to a minimum where others are concerned. Unlike you, I am not at the gym to primp like a teenage beauty contestant.

Just a tip: if I wanted to maximize the amorous ogling of self, I wouldn’t bother walking all the way to the fitness complex. If I were you, dear gym jock, I’d save myself the trip, and simply strip down to my skivvies, turn on some Abba, and do a little self worship from the privacy of my powder room.

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