The gym. The sheer image of it makes my legs shake and my arms tremble, and not because I'm sore from working out there. It’s because I’m already nervous about entering that two-story edifice of sweat and confusing machinery.
Let’s make one thing astoundingly clear: I am not a gym person. My idea of exercise is speed walking from the kitchen to the couch and lifting a 2-lb bag of chips along the way. I will basically do anything to avoid working out, and my skills in gym-procrastination are so developed that I considered listing that on my résumé. But I want a healthy heart, clean arteries, and a long life, so 4-5 times a week, I don an old t-shirt, grab my yoga mat, and go sweat it out.
When I arrive at the gym, I am immediately convinced that everyone is staring at me. This is what some would call the spotlight effect. In reality, everyone is so wrapped up in their workouts that they couldn’t care less, but even stepping foot into a gym makes me conscious of every potential bead of sweat on my temples.
I take my place at the elliptical between a gazelle-like blonde in hot pink leggings and a middle-aged mom training for a marathon. I pop in my headphones, press play, and let the early-2000s jams roll. The elliptical has always been my machine of choice because it’s easy on the knees and there’s no way to add an incline, but the arms have always been what throw me. Am I supposed to hold on to the moving handles? Is it a workout for my arms too? I scan the exercisers around me and get mixed results. I guess it will always be a mystery.
After 30 minutes of rotating my legs in mid-air, I know what I have to do. Floor work. I lay my mat on the floor and engage in some half-hearted stretching before I embark on a circuit of ab exercises. I set the timer and only look forward to the 10 seconds of rest between every set. Crunches, raises, lifts, cycles…I didn’t know there were so many ways to work out one part of my body. My nowhere-near-a-six-pack is burning, and I almost wish it was arm-and-leg day, just so I could stop reaching up to barely touch my toes.
I take a quick glance over at the more complicated machines and chuckle that I even entertained the thought of facing those iron beasts. If there was a match-up between me and the leg curl machine, all bets should go on my opponent. Some of the equipment is just downright ridiculous. The Pec Deck 3000? That sounds like something NASA would launch into orbit.
When my attempt at a workout is complete, I do what any considerate human does and grab a moist towelette to wipe down my elliptical and mat. I am of the persuasion that this act does absolutely nothing to sanitize the equipment and that we’re better off accepting that our shirts are soaked with not only our sweat, but the sweat of our forebears. In any case, to avoid any more of the stares that I’m positive I’m getting, I follow through with gym etiquette and wipe down the machine.
I get back from the gym and after a shower, I feel great. Why don’t I go to the gym more often, I ponder. I have more energy, my cravings are curbed, and I totally have bragging rights! And best of all, I'm pumped up for that long, guilt free walk from the kitchen to the couch, chips in hand.
