Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The Gym
Since picking up a workout routine, I've also picked up on the curious social phenomenon that is The Gym, particularly the university Gym I frequent. Usually, I spend about 2 hours when I go. (Now, don't let me fool you: After dressing out for 5 minutes, taking my sweet-ass time walking up the three flights of stairs to the unofficial women's section, spending 10 minutes stretching, getting a drink of water, then realizing that I have to go to the bathroom only to spend another 3 minutes re-organizing my hair into a bun that sits at the highest possible point on the crown of my head--after all this, I really only walk on the treadmill at 1.5 mph for 20 minutes and--BOOM!--2 hours have come and gone.) During these 2 hours in which I look at people more than concentrate on de-flabbing my arms, I have picked up on various dynamic relationships between gym-goers.
There are the older folks who had the sense to hire a personal trainer to show them how to work the weight machines, thus being able to lift way more weight than I ever could. Actually, a 65-year old man saw that I was fumbling with (correction: breaking) a leg machine and stopped on over to help me adjust a lever or two and--BOOM!--there I was lifting more weight than I thought I could! Most of these older folks have forsaken self-consciousness and instead appear to be the most dedicated and helpful of the gym-goers.
There are the thirty-something women who are still trying to compete with the bodies of 20-year old college girls who can drink liter upon liter of beer and not show one sign of cellulite--but they will soon. (Just being truthful and speaking from experience.) For the thirty-something, everything is something to be competed against. To them, you are the grass, and they are the lawnmower. Too bad the grass grows faster than they could ever mow. (I'm not mean; it was just too good to leave out.) (Note: Although not a thirty-something, I identify with them the most.)
Then, there's the boyfriend-girlfriend workout TEAM. This time in the gym is obviously their foreplay. Girlfriend follows Boyfriend everywhere, and he just soaks up the attention and impresses her with UH after UH after UH while lifting a 50 lb. barbell. Sometimes, Boyfriend needs to find an extra circular 10 lb. weight thingy, and--loving and dedicated as she is--Girlfriend follows him two paces behind. He finds one, picks it up. She stops and waits for him. They smile at eachother. He walks in front of her again, back to another bench, and she follows behind, ponytail and ribbon bouncing with pride for him. Girlfriend never lifts a thing, just smiles at Boyfriend, follows him, encourages him. While this pair of gym-goers provokes a gag reflex, they're kinda cute, too.
Finally, there's my nemesis. I don't know her name, but I know her clothing size. Size 0 and I tend to workout at the same time and in the same areas (no fault or planning on my part, I assure you). What happens is, I'll be on an elliptical machine (not breaking a sweat because I don't care enough to get my heart rate up), and Size 0 will get on the elliptical straight across from me. She starts big. Her legs begin to cycle like those of a person who is riding a bike on an incline and doesn't understand how gears work. Then, as if she has an on-off button, she instantaneously starts dripping buckets of sweat all over herself. And, for the grand finale--Size 0 looks up at me, straight into my eyes, just to rub in the fact that she is visibly working harder than me. My gaze is always there to meet hers, and, as my revenge, I pull out a Snickers and start chomping down on it, rubbing in the fact that I can move my legs in an elliptical shape and eat a yummy candy bar at the same time. Mmmmm. I'm so gross. ¶ 1:55 PM
There are the older folks who had the sense to hire a personal trainer to show them how to work the weight machines, thus being able to lift way more weight than I ever could. Actually, a 65-year old man saw that I was fumbling with (correction: breaking) a leg machine and stopped on over to help me adjust a lever or two and--BOOM!--there I was lifting more weight than I thought I could! Most of these older folks have forsaken self-consciousness and instead appear to be the most dedicated and helpful of the gym-goers.
There are the thirty-something women who are still trying to compete with the bodies of 20-year old college girls who can drink liter upon liter of beer and not show one sign of cellulite--but they will soon. (Just being truthful and speaking from experience.) For the thirty-something, everything is something to be competed against. To them, you are the grass, and they are the lawnmower. Too bad the grass grows faster than they could ever mow. (I'm not mean; it was just too good to leave out.) (Note: Although not a thirty-something, I identify with them the most.)
Then, there's the boyfriend-girlfriend workout TEAM. This time in the gym is obviously their foreplay. Girlfriend follows Boyfriend everywhere, and he just soaks up the attention and impresses her with UH after UH after UH while lifting a 50 lb. barbell. Sometimes, Boyfriend needs to find an extra circular 10 lb. weight thingy, and--loving and dedicated as she is--Girlfriend follows him two paces behind. He finds one, picks it up. She stops and waits for him. They smile at eachother. He walks in front of her again, back to another bench, and she follows behind, ponytail and ribbon bouncing with pride for him. Girlfriend never lifts a thing, just smiles at Boyfriend, follows him, encourages him. While this pair of gym-goers provokes a gag reflex, they're kinda cute, too.
Finally, there's my nemesis. I don't know her name, but I know her clothing size. Size 0 and I tend to workout at the same time and in the same areas (no fault or planning on my part, I assure you). What happens is, I'll be on an elliptical machine (not breaking a sweat because I don't care enough to get my heart rate up), and Size 0 will get on the elliptical straight across from me. She starts big. Her legs begin to cycle like those of a person who is riding a bike on an incline and doesn't understand how gears work. Then, as if she has an on-off button, she instantaneously starts dripping buckets of sweat all over herself. And, for the grand finale--Size 0 looks up at me, straight into my eyes, just to rub in the fact that she is visibly working harder than me. My gaze is always there to meet hers, and, as my revenge, I pull out a Snickers and start chomping down on it, rubbing in the fact that I can move my legs in an elliptical shape and eat a yummy candy bar at the same time. Mmmmm. I'm so gross. ¶ 1:55 PM
