Gym-tastic
We came across this rooftop? gym while on a visit to Mexico six years ago. I still have not attained the “iron abs” advertised.
I joined a gym recently. This was not a new-year’s-resolution kind of thing, but more of a it’s-not-even-Thanksgiving-and-my-pants-aren’t-fitting kind of thing. I’m happy to report that ever since I joined in mid-November, I have gone to the gym faithfully three times a week, except for a few blazing moments of rebellion in which I opted to get the kids off to school and then stay home and watch “Felicity” re-runs in my pajamas.
You’d think that after a solid month of regularly working out, I’d be seeing some pretty significant changes in my body by now. This, however, has not been the case, and I think it might be related to the fact that I like to chase each workout with about a quarter-pound of fudge. This is not recommended for weight loss, but does tend to help with boredom, depression, and overall holiday angst.
Being a member of a gym is not something I usually do. Working out on my own at home is much more my style than bumbling around a gym amid rock-hard 20-year-olds who wouldn’t know a muffin top if it hit them in the face (hard to do, but definitely possible).
But after almost seven years of at-home workouts, my routine (and self-motivation) had gotten a little stale. I needed some accountability—someone who would force me to hold a plank 10 seconds longer or not give up after two reps of a workout instead of three. It also doesn’t hurt that I give them money and can either basically watch them flush it down the drain or use it to better myself.
The gym that I joined is just my speed: it’s very close to my house, it’s pretty small, and there are no aforementioned muffin-top averse 20-year-olds. In fact, in the time slot when I show up at least, the crowd is decidedly middle-aged. One morning shortly after I joined, I saw a man lifting dumbbells while wearing a shirt emblazoned with the words “Kinda Fit, Kinda Fat”. And I knew I had found my home.
I take a strength-training class three times a week, which means I am now well acquainted with things like kettlebells, resistance bands, and muttering grumpy phrases under my breath. I can use a TRX strap, I know what a Cuban Press looks (and feels!) like, and I have learned that there are more ways to squat than I ever thought possible.
The classes are definitely challenging—I think my muscles have been sore for a month straight—but perhaps the hardest part is walking into the gym each morning wearing clothes that are definitely only fit for at-home workouts.
For example: at home, I don’t think twice about working out in the yoga pants I was wearing six years ago when I was re-painting the trim inside our house and I bumped up against some wet paint and got a white paint streak across my right buttock.
Although no big deal when I’m working out in front of my TV, such attire does not fit in with the well-appointed ladies in my gym class, who look like they could walk out the gym doors and head straight to a classy lunch with their gal pals.
I was talking to Logan about these women one day after returning from my work out.
“Not only are they dressed cute, but they all also somehow have totally flat abs; I feel like a troll standing next to them,” I bemoaned. “And they’re all really nice, too, which somehow makes it worse.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Logan replied. “Comparison is the thief of joy.”
“Actually, I think kettlebell squats are the thief of joy,” I corrected him. And I reached for another piece of fudge.