The Gym Self-Check and the Glass Wall

Dean was a recent convert to the gym, and his favorite part of the workout was the post-set 'Self-Check'—the moment you stand in front of the giant mirrored wall and admire your temporary muscle pump.

He had just finished a brutal set of heavy bicep curls. He was feeling strong, sweaty, and supremely confident.

He walked over to the mirror, flexed his arm, and angled his head to catch the perfect lighting, executing the "side-bicep-with-a-cynical-smirk" pose. He was magnificent.

He spent a long moment admiring his transformation, completely unaware that he had finished his workout right next to a newly installed, floor-to-ceiling glass wall separating the weight room from the Pilates studio. It wasn't a mirror at all; it was a window.

On the other side of the glass, the Pilates class—a group of sixteen women and their instructor—had just finished their stretching and were now enjoying a quiet, restorative break.

Dean, convinced he was alone with his reflection, turned fully to the side, tightened his core, and executed the "back-double-bicep," complete with a full-throated, aggressive grunt of satisfaction.

The entire Pilates class froze, sixteen pairs of eyes staring at the shirtless, sweaty man aggressively flexing his back muscles right in front of them.

The Pilates instructor, a tiny woman named Sasha, slowly walked up to the glass wall. She did not open the door. She just stood there and stared at Dean.

Dean, still deep in his self-check, didn't notice the sixteen human beings staring back at him. He thought Sasha was just another part of the gym's mirrored design.

He decided to provide a little commentary to his "reflection."

"Oh, yeah," Dean muttered to his assumed mirror image, tapping his tricep. "The tricep is looking absolutely taxed. And the hair on the back is really starting to fill out. Good job, buddy."

Sasha, the instructor, knocked sharply on the glass. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Dean jumped, startled. He looked straight into Sasha's face, now separated by only a pane of glass.

Sasha didn't yell. She pointed slowly at the sign taped to the glass wall. It read: "NOT A MIRROR. PLEASE REFRAIN FROM TOUCHING OR FLEXING AGAINST THE PILATES STUDIO."

Dean's face immediately flushed a deep, violent crimson. He had just narrated his own muscle tone and back hair to a silent, captive audience.

He immediately turned around, grabbed his shirt, and tried to sprint out of the weight room, only to realize that in his haste, he had left his water bottle directly in front of the glass wall.

Sasha calmly picked up the water bottle and opened the door. "Excuse me, sir," she said, handing him the bottle. "You forgot your hydration. And next time you want to admire your taxed tricep, perhaps use the actual mirror in the locker room. The ladies of the Pilates class have seen enough back hair for the week."

Dean grabbed the bottle and ran, realizing he had just provided the most awkward, unsolicited performance in the history of the gym. He never worked out past 5 AM again.