Among the places where an older white guy can feel like an alien in pop culture (in-theater, movie trailers are a given) is, of all places, the gym. Or what we used to call a gym. In my case, it’s LA/Fitness, which bought out a place I use to work out at. Sometimes I feel like the only person without tattoos. Or guy leotards. Or a man bun. Or not wired up. Or not wearing a baseball cap backwards. And this just in: The room where I do my stretching is not always available because of classes–from yoga to Pilates–or staff instruction. This time it was because it was reserved–and packed to the killer abs–for a “posing seminar.” Seriously. You don’t just work out to feel good and look good–but to formally look good.