The Gym

Going to the gym is great.  Sure it’s a wonderful place to keep fit, strengthen my heart and fight Adult Onset Diabetes, but it’s also feels a bit like going on a safari--watching people in their habitat. Really it compares only with sitting at a table in a mall food court, a habitat even the animals in Africa would shy away from. 

I regularly go, or rather force myself, to the gym. With a predisposition to weight gain and defective Thyroid, I am keenly aware of my need to haul it to the gym five or six times a week.   I go at different times depending on what the day looks like, and have started to notice some trends.  For example the facility is full of stay at home mom’s from about 9-11. Their children spreading and gathering germs in the drop off childcare. 

It seems no matter what time of day I visit, there are awlways certain people I see.  There’s always the man on the stair stepper grudgingly climbing as sweat forms and drops from his forehead, neck and nose.  He wears navy blue sweat pants, an oversized t-shirt and white tennis shoes.  He grips the railing of the machine as if he were to let go he’d lose his footing and slide down to the floor. He stops for a moment to take a phone call from his buddy, forgetting there is anyone around him who doesn’t want to know what time they are meeting up to watch the game. 

As I turn to the right I see the elliptical machines.  A tall thin girl with a long pony tail is there. Her clothes are fitted as she wears stretchy pants and sports bra. She viciously attacks each level.  She’s fit.  She’s been running since Jr High, never giving fat, cellulite or stretch marks a chance. She undoubtedly has her head phones plugged into her iPhone listening to music, never watching the television attached to the machine. Don’t get me wrong.  She is not there for social reasons.  She is not looking for a date.  She is there because it’s what she does; it’s how she stays balanced.  

Down in the weight room one can hear the grunts coming from beefcakes who lift weights over their chests and bring them back down keeping their arms in a perfect 90 degree angle.  There are girls there too.  Sometimes they are like me, sticking to the routine they know, clearly not trying to impress anyone with either their clothes or weightlifting ability, but every once in awhile I peak out the corner of my eye to see the gal in the pink spandex singlet who I hope is training for some kind of competition. Sometimes there is the girl with make up perfect, hair styled and wearing leg warmers on her arms.  This girl is in fact there to be noticed and noticed she is. 

Meanwhile, I plug away at my tortoise-like pace.  My face getting red, and my pulled back hair not doing me any favors.  I undoubtedly have a well worn NIKE t-shirt on and am blocking out any thoughts about what I must look like from the rear as I consider the row of stationary bikes behind me.  When I make it down into the weight room, I hope to blend in, no one noticing the amount of weight I am using.  The music in my head phones alone would cause the whole place to let out a collective sigh of judgement. 

At the end of my time there, I quietly gather my things and take a last look around.  I am whole-heartedly proud of everyone who made it there that day. A mental “nice work!” goes out to the man on the stair stepper.  Even if he only did five minutes that day, it was a good five minutes.  “Good job” goes out to the girl on the elliptical; she deserves a medal for not letting the fat even catch up to her!! And to all those in the weight room, “Congrats!”  you are likely stronger today than you were yesterday.  And me?  Heck ya--I went to the gym.  Perhaps my reward should be ice cream.