The second you step into the gym, you enter into a merciless judgment zone, not intended for the weak of heart. No one is safe from each other, and especially not from themselves. Once inside the concrete, windowless walls of the Arrillaga’s Recreational Gym, your generally friendly thoughts are quickly swept to the wayside, and a new ruthless mental code of conduct immediately takes hold. The gym forces my thoughts into the devil’s lair of negativity — the second I take off my sweatshirt and turn on my iPod, the gym has already begun to suck out my appreciation of humanity, filling the gap with its repugnant spawn: brutal comparisons, harsh judgments and vicious self-deprecation.

The first step on every gym-goers path towards condemnation is simple observation. With little intriguing visual input, we are forced to watch those around us, and we start to notice patterns. No matter what day you go or what strange time you show up, hoping to snag a free elliptical, you run into the usual gym suspects. Over in the free weights area, there is always that guy dressed in a skin-tight red Underarmour shirt who is bench pressing. And bench pressing. And bench pressing some more. Without fail, on the elliptical next to you bounces the US Weekly-reading, hip-popping, arms-flailing, ponytail swishing blonde who, depending on the day, is wearing either knee-length spandex, chandelier earrings or pink. Inevitably, two awkwardly old people walk in together, bringing the average age of the gym from 21 up to 30. And gracing the stationary bike, there is always some hard-bodied hottie — a hidden treasure of fitness. You wonder who this incredibly in-shape, crazily sweaty, hard-working hunk could be, until he puts his shirt back on and you realize he’s on the Track and Field team.

You are casually people watching, picking up on categories of gym-users. And then suddenly and inevitably you start to get sucked into the realm of judging. You can’t help but stare at Hulky McHottButt as he leans over to change the weights, but of course he probably has to go to the gym every day for hours to cultivate his derriere. Celly McUlite should probably take a cue from Hulky, and Oldie McFart should have two decades ago. Scrawnie McGraw and Twiggie McGee should definitely look into lifting together before you confuse them with 12-year old girls from behind again.

You start to draw ever harsher and more irrational conclusions about the strangers around you. You hate the girl running on the treadmill in booty shorts and a sports bra, but you run ten minutes longer so you can look like her. You hate the meat-head who makes ridiculous noises as he does his bicep curls for the eighth rep — but you can’t help picturing him in bed. She is skinnier. He is buffer. She is fatter. He is hotter. Fitter. Better.

All of my ruthless judgments, however, are ultimately measuring sticks held up to my own body — I compare my abs, legs, work-out routine and estimated fitness level with every other Stanford student and wayward faculty member that dares step foot inside the combat zone. Not only do I internally guffaw at Celly’s flabby arms as she pumps them back and forth on the elliptical, but I then check my arm’s own movement to see just how much more stationary my tricep-area truly remains. She is lifting ten pounds for that? Well I am doing twelve and a half and with damn better form.

My constant mental barrage of judgment begs the question, Why do I, why do any of us really go to the gym? God knows it is not for the view from the basement or the perfumed air. Do we go to feel good? To look good...to look better...to look better than her? Life is a competition to get good grades, to land jobs and to date McHottbutt, and your relationship resume seems to increase ten-fold when you can boast a washboard stomach and a pair of shapely gams.

I’m the first to admit that all too often I work out for the wrong reasons. I want my new pair of jeans to fit better. I want to be skinnier. I want guys to notice me more. I am so busy drawing dangerous conclusions about my self-worth and mentally chopping down every pathetic gym-goer that happens to cross my visual line of fire that I forget to congratulate myself for simply working out. Or for running a mile faster, or pushing through more crunches. I never stop to enjoy the release and relief of a good work-out.

Our bodies are a frustratingly controllable part of our appearance, and I think we all judge too quickly and harshly about what type of person has what type of body. But what if, just if, we stopped drawing comparisons and focused that attention inward? What if we tried going to the gym for ourselves? I wouldn’t know what to think, but I am sure it would be a good start down the path to strengthening my all-too-feeble body image.

(On the other hand, all the varsity athletes I have seen in the last month in the Recreational Center, seriously, use the weight room at 6:00 a.m. with the rest of your team. You are making us all feel bad about our relatively spotty dedication and mediocre will power, and your eye candy just isn’t worth the deeper blow to our fragile sense of self-worth.)

If you too are attempting to reform you gym-going judgments and nursing your feeble body image e-mail Katie at kttaylor@stanford.edu.