Every few days, I change my route home and, instead of going from my office chair directly to my bedroom or a restaurant, I somehow find the wherewithal to take the road that leads me to the gym. In the twenty or so minutes that it takes me to get from my work parking lot to the parking lot that leads me into the gym, it's quite easy to talk myself out of going. But I'm so tired, I say to myself as I drive. You know what I could do? I could go home and clean up my email inbox, organize it all nice and pretty. Or I could catch up on some of the Sex in the City reruns OnDemand. Or I could reorganize my dresser. ANYTHING but go to the gym. But, more often than not, something inside me keeps my car pointed in the direction of a step class, a kickboxing class, or the elliptical machine. And what is it that motivates me? Is it the promise of thinner thighs and flatter abs? Is it the desire to rid myself of stress via weights and cardio? Is it picturing the two vacations to warm climates I'll be taking in 2007, the bathing suits I'll be forced to wear? No. It's none of the above.
It's the ten or so minutes before my class starts, between changing into my old, worn out gym clothes and hopping my way through an hour of instructor-led torture. It's in those minutes that the true socializing occurs. The catching up with people I only see a few days a week, but who, nonetheless, get my entire life story in that short span of time. It's in that ten minutes where I'm greeted with such stunning nicknames as "Bitch" and "Whore" from the larger than life petit woman who parades around in her spandex pants and loose T-shirts like a gym mascot. It's the jokes about my smoking and drinking doled out by the tall blonde who steps and lifts and "double-times" it on the step next to me. It's the laughing and the jokes, the masochistic need I have to trade sarcastic insults with the other women who've found their way to the gym each night. That's what keeps me from giving up and going home.
It's funny, having a room full of women (and a few boys, here and there) whose company you keep so infrequently, but with whom you trade your most embarrassing or wonderful stories. A chorus of voices leaks out of the classroom even while we kick, jab and cross our way through class. Unable to contain ourselves, we hurl insults and hefty words through all of the sweat and work we're doing. We admonish "Shut up" or "Why aren't you working out, Judy?" over the teacher's instructions, cackling over orders to "kick higher" or "arabesque." I catch knocks against my character while I'm throwing punches. And it's delicious...The way it makes you forget how hard you're working, how it makes you forget the ache in your legs, the fatigue in your arms. The laughter that accompanies my gym sessions does me better than any amount of breathing through my straining, works my stomach far better than the fifty crunches we had to do.
Experts suggest that going to the gym with a "buddy" makes you more apt to continue going, is motivating enough to force you to stick to your gym commitment without even realizing it. I never agreed, choosing to view my gym experience, instead, as a solo project. I didn't join with anyone, I never went with anyone, and that's the way I liked it. From time to time I consider what it would be like to actually go with someone, to have plans to meet a friend every night. And as soon as I consider it, I let it go. Because I like my freedom, to go or not to go.
But without even realizing it, I met my motivation, my friend that I've committed to, in the form of a room full of women, who, despite age and life differences, have become my friends, and the reason I go.
Of course, I'd never talk to any of those bitches in real life.*
*Hello Judy! Hello Tisha! Hello ladies!
Showing posts with label Workin It. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Workin It. Show all posts
Monday, December 18, 2006
Saturday, November 11, 2006
The iPod Knows
Thursdays aren't my usual gym days. Not because I have a prior engagement on Thursdays, but because there's not a class that night that I enjoy taking. But this past Thursday, when my plans for the evening were canceled, I decided to make up for the cheeseburger and ton of fries I had for lunch and hit the elliptical.
With my dainty little iPod in hand, I stretched and limbered up in preparation for the hour of work ahead of me. Though I have a workout playlist, I thought I'd take my chances with Shuffle. It carried me through my warm up with a little Kanye West, the drifted into too-slow Jonny Lang. I forwarded my way through until I hit the faster songs, the ones that got me moving and made me forget about the time I had left, the miles I still wanted to go.
Looking like an idiot, I silently sang along with each song, my body trying to dance despite the fact that my feet were occupied with the machine. I moved my mouth and pumped my arms and couldn't resist tapping along with the beat on the handles. It got me through my first half hour with no problems, making me forget that I had a whole half hour left.
It was when I had to reset the elliptical at the half hour mark that I noticed it: The battery indicator on my iPod, glowing red. I was running out of time. I was tired, though, and sort of grateful that my music would soon give out, as it felt like my thighs were threatening to give out, too. So I made a deal with myself: I'd keep going as long as the iPod did.
Song after song, I waited for that indicator to flash empty and for the screen to go blank, for the techno music currently playing to come to an abrupt halt. I ached for its end, pushing myself just enough to get through until the certain snap of silence came.
But it didn't. The music kept going. And going. And going.
So did I.
And, after over a full hour on the machine, I was finally able to stop; but because my time was up, not because the iPod gave out. Sweat poured down my face and torso as I slowly removed myself from the contraption, music still pumping away directly into my eardrums.
I would've quit, I would've been happy to. But I needed to keep going, and my trusty little iPod knew that.
Thank God for technology.
With my dainty little iPod in hand, I stretched and limbered up in preparation for the hour of work ahead of me. Though I have a workout playlist, I thought I'd take my chances with Shuffle. It carried me through my warm up with a little Kanye West, the drifted into too-slow Jonny Lang. I forwarded my way through until I hit the faster songs, the ones that got me moving and made me forget about the time I had left, the miles I still wanted to go.
Looking like an idiot, I silently sang along with each song, my body trying to dance despite the fact that my feet were occupied with the machine. I moved my mouth and pumped my arms and couldn't resist tapping along with the beat on the handles. It got me through my first half hour with no problems, making me forget that I had a whole half hour left.
It was when I had to reset the elliptical at the half hour mark that I noticed it: The battery indicator on my iPod, glowing red. I was running out of time. I was tired, though, and sort of grateful that my music would soon give out, as it felt like my thighs were threatening to give out, too. So I made a deal with myself: I'd keep going as long as the iPod did.
Song after song, I waited for that indicator to flash empty and for the screen to go blank, for the techno music currently playing to come to an abrupt halt. I ached for its end, pushing myself just enough to get through until the certain snap of silence came.
But it didn't. The music kept going. And going. And going.
So did I.
And, after over a full hour on the machine, I was finally able to stop; but because my time was up, not because the iPod gave out. Sweat poured down my face and torso as I slowly removed myself from the contraption, music still pumping away directly into my eardrums.
I would've quit, I would've been happy to. But I needed to keep going, and my trusty little iPod knew that.
Thank God for technology.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Round is a Shape
For the first time in well over two months, I claimed my usual spot in the front of my Step/Sculpt class at the gym. I set up my step and chose my weights and grabbed a mat. I had my water, my towel, and even a paper towel, too. I was ready.
I stood on my step with two risers beneath the long, skid-proof surface, my heels positioned so that they hung over the edge and let my weight fall back. I stretched out my calves, my hamstrings, in preparation for the beating they were about to endure. I chatted with the ladies in my class, filling them in on my recent adventures to Mexico, to the hospital. I giggled and laughed and quipped my way through the ten minutes it took our instructor to walk into the room. Once she did, she greeted us with a cheerful hello and strode right over to the music and hit play.
Already? I thought, jumping in rhythm with the rest of the class. Where was the warm up, the stretching, the easing into this? It had been so long since I'd been there, I'd forgotten that we start, then stop to stretch, then we really go at it. No big deal, I thought, I can keep up. I've taken breaks longer than two months and had no problem getting right back into the swing of things.
Cut to thirty minutes later, where I was the one off of my step, panting and trying to catch my breath, while the rest of the class happily V-Stepped, A-Stepped and Over-and-Overed their way through class. Once I thought I had recovered sufficiently, I tried to jump back into it. No dice. My arms cried out under the four pound weights I was instructed to push up over my head. My thighs burned from the stepping up, from the squeezing, from the squatting. My lungs struggled to keep up through the jumping and the moving and hopping and rapid pace. I stepped off, and removed a set of risers from beneath my step, leaving me at Level One.
I stood on my step with two risers beneath the long, skid-proof surface, my heels positioned so that they hung over the edge and let my weight fall back. I stretched out my calves, my hamstrings, in preparation for the beating they were about to endure. I chatted with the ladies in my class, filling them in on my recent adventures to Mexico, to the hospital. I giggled and laughed and quipped my way through the ten minutes it took our instructor to walk into the room. Once she did, she greeted us with a cheerful hello and strode right over to the music and hit play.
Already? I thought, jumping in rhythm with the rest of the class. Where was the warm up, the stretching, the easing into this? It had been so long since I'd been there, I'd forgotten that we start, then stop to stretch, then we really go at it. No big deal, I thought, I can keep up. I've taken breaks longer than two months and had no problem getting right back into the swing of things.
Cut to thirty minutes later, where I was the one off of my step, panting and trying to catch my breath, while the rest of the class happily V-Stepped, A-Stepped and Over-and-Overed their way through class. Once I thought I had recovered sufficiently, I tried to jump back into it. No dice. My arms cried out under the four pound weights I was instructed to push up over my head. My thighs burned from the stepping up, from the squeezing, from the squatting. My lungs struggled to keep up through the jumping and the moving and hopping and rapid pace. I stepped off, and removed a set of risers from beneath my step, leaving me at Level One.
Oh, Step With Two Risers: Why do you mock me?
I've been going to the gym for three years, maybe four. I've quit classes and gone back many, many times in my entire career there. I've taken breaks that have lasted much longer than two months. I've given up altogether for periods of time so significant that the gym has deleted me from their system. But each time I went back, I pushed all the way through that same first step class, with two risers. TWO. I've never given up, I've never been the girl pacing the floor, trying to let her heart slow down. Last night, I was.
It's not so bad, I told myself. This break was the first time I ceased to do anything for the entire amount of time I was out. I had surgery, I convinced myself. I've been weakened. It's okay to have to develop stamina. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the cigarettes, the vodka, the wine, the ample amounts of chocolate I've been eating. It certainly doesn't have anything to do with the cold I still have. I couldn't have anything to do with the fact that I spent the entire class sniffling and wiping my nose to prevent any mucus-related embarrassment. I couldn't have anything to do with the cough that all that heavy breathing produced. No, that's not it. Clearly, I'm just weak now.
But I finished the class. I didn't do as many crunches as I'm used to, I didn't do the hardest modifications for every exercise like I usually do, but I finished. And I was proud of myself. The first step back to being in shape is always the hardest.
I was still congratulating myself on my success as I took my post-step-class shower. And that's when I felt it. The throbbing in my frontal lobe. The dull whomp-whomp-whomp sound that filled my ears when I bent over to shave my legs. The pinching right in between my eyes.
Ten minutes later, I was in bed, with the lights off, moving my body around to whatever position allowed me to be free of my headache for at least a minute. I popped a couple of Motrin. I buried my face in the many pillows on my bed. I wouldn't let myself cry over the pain because I knew that would only make it worse.
"Goddamn oxygen deprivation," I muttered as I flopped myself onto my stomach. "Why'd you have to try to be so tough? You could've started out easy, and moved onto the more difficult moves if you needed more, but noooo, you had to start off with the hardest and then go down to easy. Had to try to be a badass, didn't you?"
I fell asleep chastising myself.
Today, my headache is, blissfully, gone. But my calves, thighs, abs and arms are staging a protest against ever trying to be tough again.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Oh Great
Last night at the gym, I hopped on the Elliptical machine right next to my boss' wife and right behind my boss. They churned away on their own machines while I buried myself in a book and drowned out surrounding conversations with headphones blasting dance music at full-volume. The class I usually take on Monday nights came to an end, and the ladies with whom I normally aerobicize came pouring out of the door.
"Hey, Laurie!" they called, wiping sweat from their brows and necks. "Why weren't you in class?"
I removed my headphones. "I had laundry to do, it took too long to make it to class in time."
A chorus of "How's the new job?" followed, with me trying to answer as diplomatically as possible. The week before I'd entertained them with little spoofs of my new profession, telling them how I didn't love it, but didn't hate it yet, though the general feeling I was getting was not good.
Sure that they all remembered this, I did my best to not sound too excited, but not too apathetic.
It's going. It's a long drive. I miss the bank. I'm learning. These were my standard responses.
Then one of my regular classmates made her way to me. "Laurie, how's that job?" She asked, after giving my behind a little slap.
"It's going well."
"I thought you didn't like it," she announced in her loud voice. I was sure the boss had heard. Certain of it, in fact.
"No, I said I didn't like that I have to learn everything new," I reached, hoping to salvage the moment.
She eyed me quizzically. I couldn't tell her that my boss and his wife were flanking me. It would be too obvious. And anyway, my boss had a clear view of me from the mirror. I tried to avoid displaying my panicked reaction. I pumped my feet faster, hoping that my worry would be lost in the sweat and the rhythm of my machine.
"Ooooh," she said, nodding. "That makes sense. Have a good week. I'll see you Wednesday?"
I told her I hoped I'd be able to make it to our Wednesday night Kickboxing class, and we said our goodbyes.
My boss and his wife slipped out the door while I traded details of my weekend with a friend near the free weights, so I was unable to do damage control. I'm just crossing my fingers that my boss doesn't greet me this morning with "So, you don't like it here, huh?"
"Hey, Laurie!" they called, wiping sweat from their brows and necks. "Why weren't you in class?"
I removed my headphones. "I had laundry to do, it took too long to make it to class in time."
A chorus of "How's the new job?" followed, with me trying to answer as diplomatically as possible. The week before I'd entertained them with little spoofs of my new profession, telling them how I didn't love it, but didn't hate it yet, though the general feeling I was getting was not good.
Sure that they all remembered this, I did my best to not sound too excited, but not too apathetic.
It's going. It's a long drive. I miss the bank. I'm learning. These were my standard responses.
Then one of my regular classmates made her way to me. "Laurie, how's that job?" She asked, after giving my behind a little slap.
"It's going well."
"I thought you didn't like it," she announced in her loud voice. I was sure the boss had heard. Certain of it, in fact.
"No, I said I didn't like that I have to learn everything new," I reached, hoping to salvage the moment.
She eyed me quizzically. I couldn't tell her that my boss and his wife were flanking me. It would be too obvious. And anyway, my boss had a clear view of me from the mirror. I tried to avoid displaying my panicked reaction. I pumped my feet faster, hoping that my worry would be lost in the sweat and the rhythm of my machine.
"Ooooh," she said, nodding. "That makes sense. Have a good week. I'll see you Wednesday?"
I told her I hoped I'd be able to make it to our Wednesday night Kickboxing class, and we said our goodbyes.
My boss and his wife slipped out the door while I traded details of my weekend with a friend near the free weights, so I was unable to do damage control. I'm just crossing my fingers that my boss doesn't greet me this morning with "So, you don't like it here, huh?"
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Blast from the Past
I pulled an old CD from my organizer before I went into the gym. Sick of the same three CDs on a constant rotation in my Discman, I decided I'd take my chances and grab an unmarked burned CD.
I hopped on the Elliptical machine and began my workout. I hit play and was thrilled when Snoop Dogg and Pharrell started signing "Beautiful." I remembered the CD, and I was glad I had chosen it. I pumped my legs and arms to the various feel-good songs on the CD. "Don't Leave Me this Way" was sandwiched between Ludachris' "Fantasy" and Missy Elliot's "Reverse It." I was sweating and loving it. Then the steady beats of hip hop died down, giving way to the beginning of a song I didn't recognize. It was piano, played slowly and seductively. Hearty.
Then the song slammed into me.
If you cut, I will bleed
Bring me down to my knees
Make me feel that what I am is never good enough.
I remembered the song in its entirety, and exactly why I chose to put it on a CD. My legs suddenly felt weak. The bars of the song, the singer's voice, catapulted me back to years ago, when the song first came out. Suddenly, I regressed to who I was then, over a year ago: Insecure, afraid. Does he love me? Will we ever get married? Maybe I should move out of my parent's house so he can see I can be independent, too. Fresh from a fight and feeling like I'd just been beaten. Doesn't he see that what he says hurts? Will I ever be happy? Will we ever NOT fight about things? What do I have to do to make him want me?
I hated it.
I hated the memory of myself. I hated that I was ever that way. I hated that a song, only a few words into the first verse, could remind me how utterly weak I was.
But I loved it, too. I loved that regardless of the fact that I was in a gym, surrounded by sweaty people and exercise equipment, I could be completely transported by the music oozing out of my headphones. I loved that music has that much power over me. Because just as quickly as I can remember listening to that song feeling feeble and helpless, I can remember finally realizing it was time to let go and get on with my life.
And there's nothing like being reminded of how far you've come.
I hopped on the Elliptical machine and began my workout. I hit play and was thrilled when Snoop Dogg and Pharrell started signing "Beautiful." I remembered the CD, and I was glad I had chosen it. I pumped my legs and arms to the various feel-good songs on the CD. "Don't Leave Me this Way" was sandwiched between Ludachris' "Fantasy" and Missy Elliot's "Reverse It." I was sweating and loving it. Then the steady beats of hip hop died down, giving way to the beginning of a song I didn't recognize. It was piano, played slowly and seductively. Hearty.
Then the song slammed into me.
If you cut, I will bleed
Bring me down to my knees
Make me feel that what I am is never good enough.
I remembered the song in its entirety, and exactly why I chose to put it on a CD. My legs suddenly felt weak. The bars of the song, the singer's voice, catapulted me back to years ago, when the song first came out. Suddenly, I regressed to who I was then, over a year ago: Insecure, afraid. Does he love me? Will we ever get married? Maybe I should move out of my parent's house so he can see I can be independent, too. Fresh from a fight and feeling like I'd just been beaten. Doesn't he see that what he says hurts? Will I ever be happy? Will we ever NOT fight about things? What do I have to do to make him want me?
I hated it.
I hated the memory of myself. I hated that I was ever that way. I hated that a song, only a few words into the first verse, could remind me how utterly weak I was.
But I loved it, too. I loved that regardless of the fact that I was in a gym, surrounded by sweaty people and exercise equipment, I could be completely transported by the music oozing out of my headphones. I loved that music has that much power over me. Because just as quickly as I can remember listening to that song feeling feeble and helpless, I can remember finally realizing it was time to let go and get on with my life.
And there's nothing like being reminded of how far you've come.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Masochist
He told me it was for the best. That the dull ache I was beginning to feel was evidence of success. That the hurt was good. And I listened to him; I continued to do as he said, letting his voice guide me through various positions, some slightly more painful than others, some more enjoyable.
"I can't," I said, my breath heavy, my face red.
"Trust me," he countered.
And so I did.
"Just a little bit more," he assured me, looking down at me. I could see approval in his eyes.
But I needed more than his approval. I needed something to keep me going.
"Tell me something, anything, to keep me from stopping," I said through my exhale.
"Sundresses." He said. "Sleeveless shirts. Tank tops. Bikinis. Spaghetti straps. Camisoles."
I finished the last of my three sets of tricep-dips and collapsed on the gym floor.
"I'm going to hate you so much tomorrow," I told him as I reached for my nearly empty water bottle.
"Yeah, but you'll love me when it's time to wear sexy little outfits this summer." He grinned as he took a seat on the bench to do his own third set.
He took to his workout and I stretched my burning arms.
And now, as I type, my whole upper body aches. My back, chest and arm muscles feel as though they've been wound too tightly. He's right, though. I'll love him for this later.
But until then, every time I reach for something or lift my arm, I will curse the day he was born.
"I can't," I said, my breath heavy, my face red.
"Trust me," he countered.
And so I did.
"Just a little bit more," he assured me, looking down at me. I could see approval in his eyes.
But I needed more than his approval. I needed something to keep me going.
"Tell me something, anything, to keep me from stopping," I said through my exhale.
"Sundresses." He said. "Sleeveless shirts. Tank tops. Bikinis. Spaghetti straps. Camisoles."
I finished the last of my three sets of tricep-dips and collapsed on the gym floor.
"I'm going to hate you so much tomorrow," I told him as I reached for my nearly empty water bottle.
"Yeah, but you'll love me when it's time to wear sexy little outfits this summer." He grinned as he took a seat on the bench to do his own third set.
He took to his workout and I stretched my burning arms.
And now, as I type, my whole upper body aches. My back, chest and arm muscles feel as though they've been wound too tightly. He's right, though. I'll love him for this later.
But until then, every time I reach for something or lift my arm, I will curse the day he was born.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
The Icing from the Cake
I went to the gym last night after work. Then I got home, and ate a plateful of chicken fingers, tater tots and ranch dressing, and creamed corn. After that oh-so-healthy dinner, I went to the freezer looking for ice cream. But I couldn't find any. So I went to the pantry and found some Nilla Wafers. One of my favorite treats is Nilla Wafers dipped in yogurt. But I couldn't find yogurt. So I went in search of icing. Yes, cake icing. I found an old, opened tub of Whipped Vanilla in the cupboard, but it had hardened, and I was too lazy to put in the microwave to soften it up. (Plus - and this is unreasonable - I was afraid of the icing having gone bad and making me sick...) Then I found Coconut-Pecan icing hiding in the back. Ah, the kind of icing normally reserved for German Chocolate cakes. Yum. I yanked it from the cabinet, grabbed my Nilla Wafers and plopped myself right down in front of American Idol.
Even as I scooped the icing to my mouth, I realized I was undoing all of the hard work I'd just done at the gym. Then I told myself that the reason I do all of that hard work is so that I can do silly shit like this and not feel guilty. So I continued shoveling icing 'n' Nilla Wafers into my mouth and got lost in all of the horrible auditions on American Idol, indulging in two guilty pleasures at the same time. When I reached my sweetness quota, I put away the icing and the cookies, proud of myself for not having overindulged. Then my mom made popcorn. It smelled so good...I had to fight with myself to not get up and head to the microwave. But I did eat her kernels (I love the kernels...). At that point, I realized that I completely lack control. I've never been one of those people who can deny themselves. I just lack the capacity to say "No. I don't need it." Anorexics and bulimics amaze me. There's some serious control in that. And I don't even have the fucked up sense of control it takes to have an eating disorder. I think the problem is that you either have to deny yourself everything (and I'd be horrible at that, because I love food), or taste it once going down and then once coming up. And it just never tastes the same the second time. So I can't do that, either. What usually ends up happening is as follows:
My inner fatty says: Gee, I'd really like a Milky Way Midnight right now.
And my inner personal trainer says: No, Laurie, you don't need that. You're not even hungry. Maybe you should just eat a small Hershey's kiss instead. You don't need that candy bar; you don't even really want it, you don't nee-Oh, okay. Why not?
And I happily devour it, making a deal with myself that I will go to the gym in the morning. Which I also fail to do.
All this talking about food, now I'm hungry.
Even as I scooped the icing to my mouth, I realized I was undoing all of the hard work I'd just done at the gym. Then I told myself that the reason I do all of that hard work is so that I can do silly shit like this and not feel guilty. So I continued shoveling icing 'n' Nilla Wafers into my mouth and got lost in all of the horrible auditions on American Idol, indulging in two guilty pleasures at the same time. When I reached my sweetness quota, I put away the icing and the cookies, proud of myself for not having overindulged. Then my mom made popcorn. It smelled so good...I had to fight with myself to not get up and head to the microwave. But I did eat her kernels (I love the kernels...). At that point, I realized that I completely lack control. I've never been one of those people who can deny themselves. I just lack the capacity to say "No. I don't need it." Anorexics and bulimics amaze me. There's some serious control in that. And I don't even have the fucked up sense of control it takes to have an eating disorder. I think the problem is that you either have to deny yourself everything (and I'd be horrible at that, because I love food), or taste it once going down and then once coming up. And it just never tastes the same the second time. So I can't do that, either. What usually ends up happening is as follows:
My inner fatty says: Gee, I'd really like a Milky Way Midnight right now.
And my inner personal trainer says: No, Laurie, you don't need that. You're not even hungry. Maybe you should just eat a small Hershey's kiss instead. You don't need that candy bar; you don't even really want it, you don't nee-Oh, okay. Why not?
And I happily devour it, making a deal with myself that I will go to the gym in the morning. Which I also fail to do.
All this talking about food, now I'm hungry.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Feel the Burn
This morning, for the fourth morning in a row, I talked myself out of getting up and going to the gym before work. And now I feel like shit.
I don't go to the gym with the intent to meet a man. I live in Milford, PA, and if a man's not gay, he's married. If he's not married, he's missing a few teeth and the concept of class. And if there is a good looking, smart, sophisticated man in Milford, he certainly is not hanging out in the gym - I know, I've looked. The men who are in the gym, especially the ones who step on the treadmill before 7:00 in the morning, are well over 60 and way beyond acceptable dating material.
Neither am I on a weight-loss mission; I don't count calories and I don't say things like "I'm on a diet," or "I couldn't possibly eat that bowl of ice cream with chocolate syrup all over it." I don't watch the calories tick off on the Precor machine and think "Yessss! I can have TWO tablespoons of dressing on my salad today!" I've never measured my salad dressing.
I go to the gym because it makes me feel good; Because I can sweat out my aggression and the toxins in my skin. When I leave the gym drenched in perspiration, my legs and arms tired from all of the lifting, I feel cleansed. It's the one part of my day where I don't have to talk to anyone, or impress anybody but me. I can see the definition in my shoulders, my arms, my legs, and I like it. And, I won't lie: I don't mind the fact that going to the gym keeps me from having to say things like "Is this meal Atkins friendly?"
But it becomes an obsession. And not finding the motivation to go makes me feel like I'm failing at something. No one but me is making me go...and I can't even follow my own instructions. So all day long, I carry around the scorching guilt of the unmotivated and unorganized. God forbid I run into a fellow gym-rat. "Where were you this morning," they chirp, "we missed you." I feel my face burn red as I offer them some sorry excuse ("I'm fighting a cold," "I had a late night," "I think I pulled a hamstring."), knowing deep down that the alarm went off and I woke up, but I chose to roll over and continue dreaming.
I don't go to the gym with the intent to meet a man. I live in Milford, PA, and if a man's not gay, he's married. If he's not married, he's missing a few teeth and the concept of class. And if there is a good looking, smart, sophisticated man in Milford, he certainly is not hanging out in the gym - I know, I've looked. The men who are in the gym, especially the ones who step on the treadmill before 7:00 in the morning, are well over 60 and way beyond acceptable dating material.
Neither am I on a weight-loss mission; I don't count calories and I don't say things like "I'm on a diet," or "I couldn't possibly eat that bowl of ice cream with chocolate syrup all over it." I don't watch the calories tick off on the Precor machine and think "Yessss! I can have TWO tablespoons of dressing on my salad today!" I've never measured my salad dressing.
I go to the gym because it makes me feel good; Because I can sweat out my aggression and the toxins in my skin. When I leave the gym drenched in perspiration, my legs and arms tired from all of the lifting, I feel cleansed. It's the one part of my day where I don't have to talk to anyone, or impress anybody but me. I can see the definition in my shoulders, my arms, my legs, and I like it. And, I won't lie: I don't mind the fact that going to the gym keeps me from having to say things like "Is this meal Atkins friendly?"
But it becomes an obsession. And not finding the motivation to go makes me feel like I'm failing at something. No one but me is making me go...and I can't even follow my own instructions. So all day long, I carry around the scorching guilt of the unmotivated and unorganized. God forbid I run into a fellow gym-rat. "Where were you this morning," they chirp, "we missed you." I feel my face burn red as I offer them some sorry excuse ("I'm fighting a cold," "I had a late night," "I think I pulled a hamstring."), knowing deep down that the alarm went off and I woke up, but I chose to roll over and continue dreaming.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
