Good for you. You finally hoisted yourself off the couch and detached yourself from "Supernatural" and "Firefly" reruns to torture yourself by lifting weights and micro-tearing your muscles. The lady at front desk swipes your card (that hasn’t been used since you signed up for it back in 2013), and gives the go-ahead to essentially walk into a place that mimics manual labor. Loud music blaring and the smell of sweat instantly overwhelm you, and the only thought that crosses your mind is why -- why did you bother coming here.
But the thought passes, and you take a look around, wondering what you could possibly do so that you don’t make yourself look like a total idiot while working out. You notice a guy doing bicep curls over by the dumbbells, and you decide to covertly copy his workout. As he’s pumping 45 pounds, you struggle to do even five curls with the 20-pounder. Maybe it’s a bad idea to start with the arms.
Legs! Fabulous idea! You’ll go do legs.
Shambling away from the dumbbells, you make your way over to the standard leg press. This you can totally do. I mean, you do so much walking already; from the fridge, to the restroom to the TV remote that you accidentally left on the counter when you opened a new pack of Cheetos. Your legs should be strong enough to handle this. Feeling confident, you put the pin in at 75 pounds, and…your legs are screaming bloody murder. In fact, if you listen closely you can actually make out the words.
“Please why, why are you doing this? We’re good to you! You’re betraying us. Please, please stop in the name of all that is good and tasty!”
But despite what your legs say, you keep pressing until you do a whopping 10. Wow, aren’t you the upcoming Hasselhoff. Giving yourself a little break, you bust out 10 more. Then 10 more. Until you can’t possibly do another one. Limping slightly when you move on to the next machine, still deciding to stick with legs. The treadmill looks like an excellent idea. Putting in your earphones (which, by the way, you really need to clean -- look at that earwax) you start to blast some dubstep-y running music, the perfect motivation. Your legs still ache (cue "Agony" from "Into the Woods") but deciding to fight through the pain, you begin at a very mellow, easy pace. This isn’t so hard, and you start to increase and increase the speed.
After a while, you feel like you’re flying. Except your lungs are bursting, and the aura of death surrounds you. But still, you push through until you can’t take anymore. You look up at the clock.
Fifteen minutes.
That’s it. A brief moment of shame drags you down as you realize how out of shape you really are. Giving a pitiful glance at the dumbbells, you consider going back and trying one more time to lift. "Next time," you tell yourself.
Trudging out of the gym, you realize that despite your legs feeling like they were hit with an A-bomb of pain, you actually feel good. Better even. The shallow depressive state you swam in beforehand lifted a little. Despite not being able to complete much, you still took steps to better yourself.
And that’s something to be proud of.
