Mr. Red: An Open Letter

*Rant ahead*

Dear Mr. Red,

It was my first time working out at the gym in the Wanangkura Stadium. It does look like a small but adequate gym. As I scanned the foreign space, my eyes locked in on the one and only squat rack; I see you there.

I lied….I heard you first. Grunting and carrying on like a pork chop.

I observed you were mid set and respected your space. I claimed a little piece of rubber mat and began warming up for a squat session. You had finished that set and walked away, that was fine as I began a hip opener sequences in preparation for a sweet squat session.

I noticed you coming back towards the squat rack however you diverted and began a lengthy conversation with an old friend in the free weights section. After what seems like forever, you wrapped up that conversation and positioned yourself under the bar ready to go. You huffed and puffed as you pumped yourself up for the lift. When you started it was like spartan war cry. Yes I get it, you want everyone to look at you big boy, I totally get it, like a male pigeon puffing out his chest and parading in search of the one.

Mate, you continued granting even after you’ve dropped weights and it was less than half what you had started with. After 30 minutes, you finally signalled that you were finished with the squat rack and moved on to the leg press machine- I did not understand your logic for your programming but hey, who am I to judge.

As you set up camp on the 45, I moved in for the kill at the squat rack. However you then came back over invading my borrowed space and stripped the lone squat rack of all the 20Kg plates. You just took them without even asking if I would want them.

I bet every dollar I’ve got, if I had been a bloke, you would not have taken them so readily, perhaps you would have asked. So thanks to you, I had to combine smaller plates and work my arithmetic skills. I watched you staring at me and I did it right back didn’t I. I did my own thing working on my front squats at 41×1. God knows what you were thinking but frankly, I don’t give a rat’s bottom.

I hoped you enjoyed your extra loaded plates on the 45 just sitting there like mounted deer heads as it did not appear you did much having yet another lengthy conversation with a matey mate.

So red, you’re not really a dear, in fact you are a douchebag.

Yours,

Min xx

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