Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six. Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six. Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six.
I grab my iPod, water bottle, and keys as I walk out the door.
Two five one five three six. Two five one five three six. Two five one five three six.
I only have to walk a block and a half, but it’s bitterly cold so I pull my hat down over my ears. I am now at the gym. I go to the gym now. I am now a gym-goer.
It’s intimidating, this new culture, particularly at my gym. My gym is a sanctuary for people who look even better when they sweat. The realm of the beautiful people with tight stomachs and muscular calves.
We have cucumber water in the locker room water coolers. Did you hear me? Cucumber water!
Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six. Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six. Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six.
While I normally would have shied away from this world, knowing it was not my own, the lure of rotisserie chicken and flat screen TV’s was too much. I rationalize: if they weren’t hunting for my species, why would they have set a trap just my size?
Each week that I successfully complete my workouts, I reward myself. Sometimes with Spongebob Squarepants stickers on my calendar, but mostly with disguises. A new black sports bra, fashionable capri sweatpants, a shatterproof indigo water bottle, my shiny new red lock. I try to blend in as best I can.
Two five one five three six. Two five one five three six. Two five one five three six.
There is a hierarchy, even on the machines. I break people down into six different categories:
A. Those who do not turn on the TV’s
B. Those who read books while on the machines
C. Those who read pop-culture magazines while on the machines
D. Those who watch the news or PBS
E. Those who watch network dramas or highly-acclaimed sitcoms
F. Those who watch trash
I will not even pretend that I fall into any category other than F, despite the fact that I did watch part of an A&E documentary on these two female boxers a couple weeks ago. However, while my innate tendency is to fall firmly in the trash category, I have acquired the chameleon-like ability to adapt to my surroundings, even if I remain a shade or two off from my neighbors.
One night, I was on the elliptical machines between CNN and a cooking show. I chose Oprah and went undetected. On another occasion, I was on the recumbent bikes flanked by an Economist reader and MSNBC. I had no choice but to watch Masterpiece Theatre. Frickin’ Brits. But once, one glorious morning, I stepped atop a treadmill and was bookended by MTV Road Rules and Laverne and Shirley. I felt neither remorse nor pain as I walk/jogged through almost an entire episode of Celebrity Fit Camp. It was heavenly.
Two five one five three six. Two five one five three six. Two five one five three six.
So tonight, I am writing this entry in my head while watching American Idol, which is challenging because I’m also trying desperately to remember the combination to my slick new red lock. Serious workout people carry bags to the gym with important things in them that need to be locked up, so I needed a serious lock. But I’m also afraid that I will forget the combination and have to ask the manager of the gym to get a bolt cutter to free my bag of important things, which really just happens to contain a Chapstick, a pack of gum, and wadded up newspapers to make it look full.
Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six. Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six. Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six.
I have seen all I can take of American Idol, so I sit down on the mat like that man just did and stretch my legs like that man just did. He is much more flexible than I am, but I don’t let this break my spirit. I just fill up my water bottle, twist my back a little like that woman just did, and walk down to the locker room.
Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six.
My shiny red lock does not open.
Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six.
I tug harder, but it still doesn’t budge. Perhaps I forgot to go past zero twice.
Twenty-five fifteen thirty-six.
Oh god. I can’t ask for a boltcutter. Should I just abandon my Chapstick? But suddenly I remember that I prepared for exactly this type of emergency. I take off my shoe, fish around for the now damp and blurry piece of paper, and let loose a deep sigh of relief.
Fifteen twenty-five thirty-six.
I grab my bag of important things, stuff my water bottle and iPod into it, and head back home.
Fifteen twenty-five thirty-six. Fifteen twenty-five thirty-six. Fifteen twenty-five thirty-six.
One five two five three six. One five two five three six. One five two five three six.
Filed under: Fitness on January 25th, 2006 | 23 Comments »
