You know those people at the gym who seem to think the whole place revolves around them?
Yeah, we’ve got one of those.
Her name’s Becky, and she’s an Instagram fitness influencer—or at least, that’s what she calls herself.
You’d recognize her right away: she’s the one with the perfectly coordinated workout gear, the ring light in her gym bag, and more time spent adjusting her phone’s tripod than actually lifting weights.
I’ve been annoyed by her for months.
She hogs equipment, spreads her stuff across multiple benches, and between sets of half-hearted (or really exaggerated) squats, she’s glued to her phone, scrolling through comments or posing for selfies.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are waiting for her to finish up so we can get a real workout in.
And when you ask her how many sets she has left?
She gives you this dismissive wave, like your time doesn’t matter.
I’ve had enough.
Becky might think she owns this place, but she’s about to learn that the gym isn’t just her personal social media stage.
Because when you treat people like background props, sooner or later, someone’s going to push back.
And that someone? Well, that’s where I come in.
Gymfluencer Headaches
The gym used to be a sanctuary, a place where you could escape the noise of the world and just focus. But ever since Becky started coming here, it’s been anything but peaceful.
She’s hard to miss—always in some neon outfit that probably costs more than my entire month’s gym membership, always fiddling with her phone, always blocking off two or three pieces of equipment at once, like she’s shooting a reality show.
It’s not just the inconvenience that bugs me.
It’s the attitude.
The way she treats the gym like her personal film set, ignoring everyone around her.
The other day, I saw her claim the squat rack with her water bottle, a towel, and a portable ring light. She then proceeded to spend the next 40 minutes alternating between taking selfies and doing the most half-hearted squats I’ve ever seen.
Her phone pinged every couple of minutes with notifications, and every time she checked it, she’d smile at the screen like she was posing for a magazine cover.
Meanwhile, I was standing there, waiting.
Squat racks are premium real estate at our gym, especially during peak hours.
After about 15 minutes of her nonsense, I’d had enough.
I approached her, politely, and asked, “How many sets do you have left?”
She barely glanced at me, flicking her hair over her shoulder like she didn’t have time to deal with a mere mortal. “Oh, I’m almost done,” she said, as if that answered anything.
She then proceeded to do one more lackluster set, stop to record herself from a new angle, and then review the footage for another ten minutes.
Yeah, she wasn’t “almost done.”
It was clear that Becky wasn’t here to work out. She was here to put on a show for her followers—people who didn’t have to deal with her in person, who only saw the perfectly edited, glossy version of her “fitness journey.”
The rest of us? We were just props in her personal little reality show.
And I, for one, was getting sick of it.
Expanding Her Domain
Over the next few weeks, Becky’s behavior got worse.
She started showing up earlier, grabbing prime equipment before anyone else could. She’d spread her stuff around like she was marking her territory—water bottles here, towels there, even her phone tripod smack in the middle of a walkway.
It wasn’t enough to just claim a bench or a squat rack. She needed space, lots of it, for her filming setup.
The gym staff? They didn’t do anything.
Becky’s got this whole “influencer” thing going on, so she’s basically free advertising for them. She tags the gym in her Instagram stories, and they eat it up.
I’ve even overheard the staff talking about how great it is to have someone like her showing off the place online. Never mind the fact that she’s making it impossible for the rest of us to actually get a workout in.
One evening, she took things to a whole new level.
It was a Tuesday, around 6 p.m., the busiest time at the gym. I was hoping to get in a quick workout before the crowd really hit, but Becky had beaten me there.
When I walked in, I saw her occupying not one, but three stations. She had the squat rack, the bench press, and a set of dumbbells scattered around her like they were part of some elaborate fitness shoot.
There were a few guys hovering around, trying to be polite, waiting for her to finish up.
But Becky wasn’t in a hurry. She was adjusting her tripod, angling it just right, then setting up her camera to record from the “perfect” spot.
It was like a train wreck. I couldn’t look away.
She’d do half a set of squats, then stop to check the video footage on her phone, scrolling through it, making sure the lighting was flattering, redoing takes if she didn’t like how she looked. She wasn’t even sweating.
And that’s when it hit me.
She wasn’t just being annoying. She was disrespecting every single person in that gym.
None of us were here to be part of her little online fantasy. We were here to work out, to get stronger, to improve ourselves.
But Becky? She didn’t care.
As far as she was concerned, we were all just extras in her personal highlight reel.
I glanced over at Marcus, one of the gym’s regulars, and caught his eye.
He’d been waiting for the bench press for at least 20 minutes by then, and I could tell he was on edge. I was too.
This wasn’t just about waiting our turn anymore.
Becky needed to learn a lesson.
And that’s when an idea started forming in the back of my mind.
If Becky was going to treat the gym like her personal stage, then maybe it was time to put on a show of our own.
Little did Becky know, her perfect content was about to go very, very wrong.
The Guys Get Together
The next time I saw Becky at the gym, I knew it was time to put my plan into action.
It was one of her peak filming days.
You could tell by the way she’d staked out her corner of the gym, her gear spread out like she was preparing for a professional shoot. Tripod in place, ring light glowing, phone at the ready.
There was no denying it—Becky was here to capture content.
But today, we weren’t going to let her have the gym all to herself.
Marcus was in on it, too.
We’d gathered a few of the regulars, gym-goers who were just as fed up with Becky’s antics as I was. We agreed we weren’t going to confront her directly—oh no, that would have been too easy.
Becky thrived on drama and attention, so the last thing we wanted was to give her the satisfaction of being a victim.
Instead, we decided to let her sabotage herself, using her own obsession with perfection against her.
It started small.
I grabbed a nearby kettlebell and casually walked into the frame of her recording setup, pretending to do a warm-up.
I wasn’t in a rush, and I definitely wasn’t subtle.
I exaggerated every movement, swinging the kettlebell with dramatic flair and making a ridiculous amount of noise.
Marcus, stationed nearby, started doing the same with a set of dumbbells, throwing in the occasional grunt that could be heard across the gym.
Becky was mid-pose in front of her camera when she noticed. She paused, glancing over her shoulder, annoyed.
But she couldn’t say anything. After all, we were just using the gym equipment like anyone else, right?
She tried to ignore us, returning to her routine, but it didn’t take long before she got up to check her camera.
I could see the frustration on her face when she reviewed the footage.
Our exaggerated exercises had completely ruined her shot. With a huff, she reset the camera, adjusted the angle, and tried again.
That’s when Marcus and I ramped things up.
He started bouncing a medicine ball around like a basketball, purposefully moving into her frame again. One of the other guys joined in, cranking out ridiculous-looking lunges directly behind her setup.
We didn’t stop her from filming—we didn’t have to. Instead, we made sure that every shot was filled with distractions, turning her “perfect workout” into a circus of over-the-top, nonsensical gym behavior.
Becky tried to maintain her composure, but I could tell she was unraveling.
She stopped her recording again and again, checking the footage, growing more and more exasperated as she realized her precious content was unusable.
Every time she tried to reset, someone else stepped into her frame, lifting weights with exaggerated grunts or doing wildly unnecessary stretches.
Finally, after what felt like hours of her struggling to keep control, Becky lost it.
She stomped over to us, her face flushed, her eyes narrowed. “Can you please stop?” she snapped, her voice louder than usual. “I’m trying to film here!”
I gave her a blank stare. “We’re just working out, Becky. Same as you.”
Marcus shrugged, not missing a beat. “Yeah, it’s a gym. We’re all here to use the equipment.”
Her face twisted with frustration. She opened her mouth to argue, but she couldn’t.
What was she going to say?
That we weren’t allowed to use the gym equipment while she was filming? That we should all clear out so she could get her perfect shot?
Realizing she had no leg to stand on, Becky huffed and turned back to her camera, muttering under her breath.
But the damage was done.
She packed up her stuff and left earlier than usual, her filming session ruined.
Meltdown Into Hilarity
The next morning, I saw Becky post on Instagram. But this time, her content was different.
She had edited together a series of clips from the gym, desperately trying to salvage something from the chaos of the day before.
But no amount of filters or music could hide the truth: her workout looked ridiculous. In one shot, you could see Marcus in the background dramatically lifting dumbbells.
In another, I was goofily swinging the kettlebell like it was some kind of medieval weapon.
Her captions, full of hashtags like #grindtime and #fitnessgoals, only made it funnier.
The comments started rolling in, and they weren’t what she expected.
“Is this gym a circus? 😂”
“Who’s that guy doing ballet in the background?”
“Are you actually working out, or is this a joke?”
“This isn’t what I signed up for, Becky.”
I couldn’t help but laugh as her followers turned on her, pointing out how staged everything looked, how fake her workout routine was.
The very thing she had been trying to control—her image—was now slipping through her fingers. The more she tried to salvage it, the worse it got.
Later that week, word got out about her meltdown at the gym.
One of the regulars had filmed it—her stomping around, yelling at people to stay out of her shots. It went viral in our small fitness community, and before long,
Becky became a meme.
People began mocking her gym diva behavior, with new members even jokingly asking, “Where’s the influencer section?”
Becky tried to recover, but her credibility was shot. Her followers began unfollowing her in droves, sick of the over-the-top dramatics.
And as for the gym?
She stopped coming altogether. Maybe she was too embarrassed to show her face again, or maybe she realized that the gym wasn’t just her personal filming studio.
As for Marcus and me, we went back to our normal routines.
The gym returned to being a place where people came to actually work out, not just post content. The atmosphere lightened, and the regulars shared a quiet sense of satisfaction.
We didn’t need to tell Becky off—we let her own actions do that for us.
And in the end, she got exactly what she deserved.