I want my gym to be as little of a “scene” as possible. I called my last spot in San Francisco “The People’s Gym”, as it was grimy, gray, utilitarian, and attended by palefaced denizens who would have been at home at a rally in the Eastern Bloc circa 1972.

That kind of atmosphere suits my approach to working out — a bitter obligation that must be dispatched quickly and with little pleasure.

In Ventura, I belong to the YMCA, a happier, cleaner place than I’m used to. However, I can retain my anonymity (and sociopathic tendencies) as I strap on the iPod and power-waddle my way to fitness on the Star Trac treadmill. The machine I prefer overlooks the pool, and often I watch the little kids having their swimming lessons. They are so cute, haplessly splashing around, that my Grinch-heart expands just a little, and I feel a tiny bit of contentment with my task at hand.

But all that goodwill is shortlived as I marvel, curmudgeon-like, at the cell phone users surrounding me. Fellow treadmillers regulary take/make calls while in max workout mode. And, since the machines are loud, they are louder, infiltrating my pristine Sexy Back podiverse.

It would be better if their conversations provided material for this blog were more interesting.

I did hear one good thing a couple nights ago: A young man of about 16 or 17 was in the weight room, hanging (not working) out with friends. He told them “Okay, I’m gonna call her” and dialed his cell. This is what I heard:

“Hello, Stacy? This is Jason. What are you doin’? Me, not much. I’m just in the gym, sculpting my abdominals.”

Here’s the free offer: if you would like a copy of my workout music, email me at ME [at] BECKY HAYCOX [dott] COM. It’s cheesy, it’s R&By, it’s rappy, it’s rockin. I don’t know why, but this playlist makes it easy to powerwaddle for up to one hour (before a spectre of Stalin wielding a medicine ball makes me run away, weeping).