Sometimes, in the most public places, you hear what seems to be the most private sounds.

“Come on! Do it! Push harder! Show me what you’ve got!” It is the masculine grunt following those commands that convinces your mind that the scene is something from a pornographic film yet the source is much more common – the weight room.

Yes, the gym – home of stick-figure waists and A-Rod pectorals donning skin-tight spandex and high school football cut-offs. Gym rats have long been aware of this social Facebook phenomenon and, being the son of a fitness club owner, I’ve often been a victim of the second-hand vanity of excessive weightlifters. You know, those guys who, outside of souping their Civic and being creepers, spend their lives at the dumbbell rack, head turned sideways gazing at their bodies with a look of undeniable egotism.

The irony is that many of us avoid the gym for fear of others staring at our muffin-tops, cankles or beer bellies. Which is an unrealistic because in reality the vain, protein-gorging egomaniacs would have to stop staring at themselves. Beady eyes fixed on their sleeveless, hairless sinew, the macho men have much more to worry about than your abdominal convexity. However ladies beware, those workout shorts with writing on your butt do not go unread by the thick necks, a Nike swoosh symbol that says “just do it” may be taken in a very literal sense.

But seriously folks, this is Rule No. 1 of gym etiquette: Do not stand between the regulars and their reflections.

Like Narcissus in the Greek fable, when a man becomes obsessed with his own reflection he cannot tear himself away. Psychiatrists call it the Adonis Complex – though I prefer to call it the NO-Xplode Complex after the Greek god of meaningless performance enhancement. These Herculean he-men pump iron and steroids until, like a beefy Tyrannosaurus Rex, they cannot wipe the sweat from their own faces.

“Hey, can you get this itch on my forehead? I’m going insane.” Aside this physical issue, weight room addiction also has its cranial consequences. One friend of mine reported the following dialogue:

“Dude, I think lactic acid is coming out of my chest.” “Yeah, bro. Same here! We worked out so hard lactic acid seeped out of our bodies!” “Dude, that’s so tight!” And though physical attractiveness poses its obvious mental limitations, it is this same Brad Pitt-wannabe who dishes the most enlightening weight room pointers, informing each novice lifter that he is cheating his body on every repetition. It is he who, in his infinite wisdom, proposes the most painful means to lift the bar.

This is Rule No. 2: The proper way to perform an exercise is the one that hurts the most.

Nonetheless, I’ve come to accept the sight of fellow gym rats of all shapes and sizes – from the butterball beginner working off years of DiGiorno and Budweiser to the square-jawed, neckless meatheads with bicep addictions. They may not be smart, but at least they can lift heavy stuff.

In fact, maybe I should start being more like them. I could saunter around the locker room nude, shamelessly kiss my newly honed muscles and scream bloody murder on each skull crusher.

And if anyone is near, I could show them exactly what I’ve got.