The Gym

Lately I’ve been feeling like I’ve just been going through the motions. Life doesn’t really exist. Wake up before the sun and rush to get ready. Take the train to work while reading the newspaper. Work hard all day. Go to the bar on occasion for drinks afterwards with colleagues. Take the train home. Have dinner and go straight to bed. Keep track of progress at work in hopes of a promotion. There is no time to stop and reflect on what's going on; I’ve become be a faceless drone in a suit - like Rene Magritte's painting.

I need to do something other than work, commute and sleep. And everyone else in the office always talks about their fantastic gyms, scattered about the city. So what do I decide to do Monday afternoon after a rough day at work? I join a stupid gym.

I suited up at the office. If I hadn’t, it would have been an excellent excuse to just walk briskly to the train station and call that exercise. Who needs a gym?

Upon arrival I encountered my second obstacle. I was impressed I even got to the gym, and now there was a line. A long line. Luckily for me, I whine really well – well enough, in fact, to cut the line and be immediately talked into giving my hard-earned money away. (I guess a long commute and set train schedule helps…) After paying the exuberant fees and signing some ridiculously long contract, I put my beautiful face – hidden below that winter layer of blubber – on a Bally’s Gym Card and called it a day.

I was about to leave when Lauren – my co-worker and fellow gym member – spotted me. “Do you want to put your bags in my locker so you can work out.”

No, not really.

But she has to be so goddamn sweet.

Shit.
I guess I will work out after all.

So I dumped my burden of stuff in her locker, took a quick glance of the facility, and emerged into the “Cardio Vascular Area.” I only had twenty minutes to “exercise” (I feel SO lame saying that word – like I actually care about it. It’s the same with a diet. I don’t diet, and I certainly don’t exercise. And yet, with the help of my suddenly-too-small pants, I’m “eating healthier” and “occupying my time at the gym – to give me a life, of course, not to lose weight.” I am lame.)

The gym is an awe-inspiring place. (Awesome would be an incredible word to write – something worthy of awe – but it’s been ruined by 80s style retro-one-liners.) Emerging from the locker room, the first thing I see is a treadmill row of beat face fatties running to no particular destination, making no progress, deliberately panting for breath, their dimpled legs looking even more like cottage cheese as they jiggle with arduous each step. And there I was, joining them. I, like practically everyone else in my row, laced up the white iPod earbuds to my ears, tuned out the world to some up-beat music on steroids, and joined the endless race to feel better about physical imperfections.

Fuck it. I like my imperfections.

Maybe I will always be a little bit fat. I don’t care. I like my tummy. And my boobs and everything else that goes with it.

I will, however, continue to go to the gym on mornings that I arrive in Boston at an absurdly early hour.

It’s what everyone else does when going through the motions of grown-up life: work, gym, commute, sleep... Who has time for fun anymore?