Disclaimer: This membership was not gained through any self-transformative journeys, new years resolutions or life-coach mumbo jumbo. My doctor told me that I was overly healthy (“Well beyond passionate!”) and that I should “try starting to move around some more.” I am now prepared to bust out some good ol’ fashioned splits. “I want you to know that your body would appreciate the effort.” My favorite “pessimist” doctor said to me one day, and I’ll never forget him giving me that glare over his glasses whilst eyeballing my medical records.
Well with that, and an asterisk of skepticism in tow, I stepped foot into what I can only, after months of couch quarantine, describe as mankind’s shrine of quirks: The gym.
The flood of sound that greets you when you walk into a gym is unreal. Don’t get me started on just how LOUD the gym is.
I’m not only talking about the clatter of weights and hustle of treadmills, but the music. Or should I say beat; booming, raging noises crafted to either motivate you to lift more or personally insult your brain until you give up. Pop music truly has no range.
It’s as if somewhere out there someone thought it’d be a great idea to pair pain with noise that sounds like robots desperately fighting while being robo tackled. I walked into the arena on my first day, frozen in fear like I was entering some sort of musical. Meanwhile, the workers shoveled headphones into my ears as workout climbers whipped downhill past me.
Cardio exercises was very straightforward. Obnoxious, but straightforward. Cardio training at our particular gym became our little friend.
To keep it simple, I adore cardio. What you may not know is that I loved the hidden hum of cardio. How it goes unnoticed and undercredited.
And let’s face it, the average person of my stature won’t live forever. But when I look at my future self, it’s easier to think about the longer I have to live when I’m actually trying to better myself now. Simply put, I had no choice but to do something that made me lose.
And there I was. Face to treadmill. I personally chose the treadmill.
That glaring lie of a contraption that straps you to a moving strip of carpet that forces your legs into orbital walking; all for the cause of “fitness.” Treadmills are great because there is no thought process involved. It simply shakes your legs back and forth in what slightly resembles running. You are going nowhere but your body thinks otherwise.
Speaking of going places. You may actually be going somewhere at a rapid pace. Turns out operating a treadmill was no walk in the park.
Literally. The machine had more buttons than I think any technology should have, other than it just spins a belt. Needless to say there was also an abundance of speed settings, pulse watches and calorie detectors.
And don’t even get me started on preprogrammed workouts labeled “Nordic Track.” I’m 99% sure that’s just skiing being chased by some death Viking. After many errors in what I thought were the proper settings, one of which I’m pretty sure was Chuck Norris mode, I settled for what most people would consider “jogging.” What I soon realized when glancing around the room was that I made a rookie mistake. Look around when you’re on a treadmill and you break the gym code.
Instead you’ll realize that everyone around you has mastered it. The ladies working out diagonally across from me were not only working on their cardio or strength, but were meticulously going about their day as to not break the illusion of not wearing too much makeup. As for the gentleman next to me, of which I could only catch glimpses of, he was not simply running.
He looked like he belonged in some sort of fitness cult that required him to jog in place while carrying what I’m pretty sure was a portal to an alternate universe disguised as a briefcase, and a suit with no jacket. I looked down at my treadmill and committed to giving my undivided attention to the “console.” Watching my feet gently sway in the treadmill’s movement I tried to maintain my balance. The last thing I wanted was to tumble from my treadmill.
It was during my third trek when I was introduced to what I can only describe as a gym creature- The Elliptical Texter. You see, these fine creatures of the gym do not see the cardio equipment as merely something to better themselves with, but rather a pedestal to themselves on. Whether it be through typing out the world’s worst texts and reading them back or acting out their dream turf war between Jennifer Lopez and Nicki Minaj via the elliptical buttons, these humans find a way to take something as simple as exercising and make it awkward.
I continued on with my journey towards the middle of nowhere (my speed ranged from “not going very fast” to “ I may be going backwards”) when the person next to me decided to begin their own bout of…
Performance art. If you think treadmills already lose any right claiming to belong in metaphoric comparisons of their nature (trust me I did), you’ll be happy to know that this individual next to me was having a blast. Literally, this person had so much fun that I can promise you I was enraptured as well.
Sure, previous experiences with treadmills included “the proud/distasteful completion” of x amount of miles in x amount of time on what we lovingly call “The Tick Chap” or “The Flip-Flop,” but this…
Let’s just say it started with their hips…. And then some arm swings. My eyes want to convince me they were dancing, but I highly doubt anyone can just dance on an elliptical without any actual rhythm.
Their hair bounced back and fourth as if they were bobbing to a tune while simultaneously making me feel like I would chuck myself out of the machine trying to emulate their mysterious dips and swirls. I tried my hardest not to stare, but I was afraid I’d get sucked into watching sweaty calamity. There she was, bobbing for apples with her phone as if her life depended on it.
Wait, did I mention how she had her phone propped up on the machine? Oh yeah…
And before you ask, she was reading TikTok tutorials on how to not suck at using the elliptical. Moving on.
I vividly remember walking into this dreaded land and telling myself I would never set foot here again. However, on my fifth excursion, I don’t know what got into me. But something didn’t let me leave until I confronted what I now believe are gym gods.
You see, as I mentioned earlier, there are these silent agreements we all sign when walking into this dust dome. Eye contact? There isn’t any.
Arm swings while on the treadmill? Also, a big fat no. I remember being told numerous times to put gym equipment back where you found it, lest you’ll be scorned by the tonsils of silenced, judgmental beast lurkers and receive the stank eye gang sign from gym villains everywhere.
And please let’s not forget the biggest sin of them all. Turning your back on the mirror when clearly the guy next to you (who I’m assuming is better than you in every way possible, including our invisible workout boss) is showing off his arm routine and dare I look at his ounce flaunting guns. My friends kept telling me to grab a dumbbell that was “just right” for me so I ended up randomly grabbing at the dumbbell that was furthest away.
Why? Because at that point I just wanted to do anything I saw on YouTube that looked like the easiest version of a bicep workout. After triumphantly completing my 3 sets, I realized my arms looked like extras from a 2000’s disco commercial having a seizure.
“What if “The Crane” looked weaker than “The Anvil” when my arms couldn’t lift up the weights and my upper body just hung down for all to see, giving off the illusion that my body just wanted to quit?”
Then I see him/The Grunter. The Grunter had legs that could only support a head like his. A head that I’m 95% sure stores another stomach somewhere inside.
Not only was his form atrocious, but his lips were vocally wrecking havoc on every muscle fiber he attempted to lift. I began to realize that gyms not only have their own form of language,
But also their own form of etiquette. See how I said “form” twice?
Machines coming and going from their rack homes make a certain sound that is heaven for those who love to loudly slam weights down, but whispery for those who care about other humans’ hearing. Similar to form, no one listens to their breathing, but trainers do this awful tongue clicking that sounds like they ate socks and expect everyone to understand what type of cruel workout routine they’re suggesting based off of that. Mix in the wide variety of sounds you encounter at a gym and you have the social injustice of personal space.
Personal space doesn’t exist when you’re at the gym. What other place in life can you be touched by a stranger so closely, that you’d want to (and should) report them for sexual harassment? Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure we’ve all been at extreme circumstances where someone brushes up against you from nothing more than pure chaos.
But exercising is one of the most vulnerable things you can do. You’d think that with your guard down, we as humans would respect each other from afar. But the gym is different.
Here personal space is defined by someone not wanting to share their equipment with you for longer than 30 seconds. Round two at the gym was going as smoothly as you could expect until I decided to make one small beginner mistake: going during “peak hours.”
The gym was packed. Not just packed, but it was an actual mosh pit of Lulu lemon fancy and gym grease as I schlepped my way through a substance thicker than Jell-O.
The air was littered with the smell of self defeat and pure…. Determination? Don’t get me wrong determination is a great scent, but could we squirt that stuff into a lotion and be like determin-scent?
I stood in line for what felt like years to get my blessed H2O when I wanted Kanye West “Hero” playing in the background so I could feel like I was actually experiencing an asthma attack at a Olympian level whilst just standing. And that’s when I spotted her/the Space Invader. The Space Invader follows the belief that the 6 inches of space your exercise yoga matt took over also belongs to you and everyone around you.
Now don’t get me wrong, as I was “doing beginner stretches” (read: sadistic positions that would make any sadist say “Ouch, thats going a little too far”) a woman laid out her matt too close to mine and we were elbow touching. I adjusted my mat away from her and like water she followed my lead siding her mat right back into mine. Normal gym occurrence?
Probably. But hey, another one of those unspoken gym rules is no touching during your “personal best”. Wait, that’s not true.
I know for fact that if she jumped behind me I would have no clue she was even behind me. What I did learn how to do was flow. By the time week three rolled around, I had learned the tricks.
Know where the “quick machines” were and avoided the ones I’d be paranoid about ruining my form on. Heck, I even made small talk with some of the staff. Enough small talk that if I asked for Rachel, they’d know who I was talking about.
It was about this time that I actually started to work out. Not only did I have to navigate my way around a gym I had never been, but I also had to be a productive hologram of myself. Instead of being a bystander that looks like they may or may not own a gym membership, I was finally there.
Present. Rachel exercising. And what better way to exercise than by actually using the long forgotten transitional art of gym locker rooms.
There is an art to undressing and dressing yourself when there is someone of the opposite sex nearby. An art that allows you and the people around you to go about your business with respect, shame and dignity intact. Some people have this mastered and walk out like they’re Gods among gym cretures-
Not me.
Whenever I change, I always feel like I’m sprinting out of there for the sake of modesty.
But between the sheer awkwardness of it all from machines I’m assuming were created by one beefy man and his basic knowledge of anatomy, to the lobotomized freaks whom preach the gospel of protein powders bending down to whisper in your ear about the essentials of branching chain amino acids (yes I did just Google that), to the froggy need some people have to workout their butts off on an exercise bike for 20 minutes and call it a day-I go back. And it’s probably because, even when you strip down all the craziness that happens at a gym, we are all really weirdos.
Don’t get me wrong brushing up on my bits and pieces more than I care to know isn’t the worst idea,
But I’ll always draw the line at group classes. Too many humans for me to handle. Even in today’s “grow yourself” society it’s insane that we pay a small fortune to run around like drones while getting shouted at to clap as we lift weight.
Don’t even get me started on stomping as we lunge like the Government is after us….The Government is after us.
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