I go to a nice gym. It's one of those huge open 24 hour nationwide chain affairs with a fair mix of serious fitness buffs and transient overweight new year's resolution types. I fit somewhere in between, a hybrid mix of the cardiovascularly fit and chubby do-gooder.

I've belonged to a few gyms in my day, going all the way back to (pre-Bally Total Fitness) Holiday Spa in California, where the only thing co-ed was the track. I've belonged to big gyms and small gyms, and I've actually used apartment gyms and employer-provided gyms.

Come to think of it, I actually used to ride my bike about seven miles each way on a major boulevard to a for-ladies-only Pam's Figure-tique, circa 1982. With that kind of commute, who needs the gym? No wonder I didn't go often.

Anyway, even with all my gym experience, I'm often surprised by some of the things I've seen at my present gym:

Almost without fail, there is a large Burger King bag full o'fast food garbage behind the brick pillars right next to the front door. Binge. Purge.

Beer cans! The big 40 ouncers! And this gym is in its own huge building with its own parking lot, so this is not likely carry over from some other business.

And here is my all-time favorite:

Two strips of crispy bacon laying on the floor in the middle of the ladies locker room. Like they fell off someone's Grand Slam breakfast platter or something. I had to look twice, but that is what they were.

Makes one wonder.