The parking lot is swamped, especially for a Saturday and I have to take a parking spot near the back. I think to myself, Why is it so busy? Are they having a grill-out or something? I could go for a burger. No, they wouldn’t do that, it’s a gym. Just because that’s something that would motivate you to show up…God, stop thinking like a fatty, you’re being ridiculous.
I walk in and notice a sign advertising the first session of a boot-camp class which will now be held every Saturday. Hmm, maybe I should give it a shot. In my experience, boot camps are for sporadic gym go-ers like myself looking for something to get them into shape, fast. The first session is usually packed, but attendance wears down as the weeks go on. Should I give it a try?
According to the sign, I’m 20 minutes, so the answer is no. If I hadn't gone tanning, I would have been on time. Maybe I can observe this first class from a distance and make a decision to come next week. That sounds good, I should have done this with that stupid step class. Oh wait, next week is Octoberfest, a beer and sausage orgy in my hometown. Obviously I can’t miss that. Maybe the next week then.
Well, I just came to the realization that this boot camp is probably not going to happen for me, but I entertain the idea as I make my way to the end of the row of elliptical machines. This way I can peer through the empty spin class room into the studio where boot camp is happening.
Within seconds, I am glad I went tanning. Who knew cancer would save my life? Well, it did this day, because this camp was fucking insane. I recognized half the participants were trainers from this gym. These bastards interrupt my reading during my cardio to try to sell me training packages. They always sidle up to me when I’m at a really good part in my book. This has happened a couple of times. It’s like they have a script or something, because each conversation is almost identical.
“Hi. How are you doing today?” Always a smile.
Just awesome, except for the fact that I was just reading, and now I’m not.
“Do you like reading on that thing?”
They mean my Kindle. Yes, I was loving it until you interrupted me. What do you want?
“So, what are some of your fitness goals?”
Truth be told, I would love for these trainers to look at me and not see a long-term commitment of training sessions, a.k.a. steady income. I work in sales and I understand the plight of these young trainers, but leave me the hell alone. Sell me sessions when I check in, when I’m crying on the scale, or when I’m using poor technique lifting weights, but don’t come between me and my literature. You might as well as taken my beer and thrown it at my mother.
Yes, I’d know them anywhere.
The other half of the class are just regular people who are in extremely good shape, except for two people who are in…well, better shape than me, which doesn’t take much. This class required even more equipment than the step class I “kind of” attended. Some of the stuff they were doing in there, I recognize from the movie G.I. Jane. I am confident I made the right move by not going in there for humiliation.
I turn my focus on one of the patrons who is in moderately good shape. She is dragging ass through this class. She’s laying down on half the floor exercises. During their water breaks, she is sitting on her stepper while the rest of these psychos jog in place. I feel bad for her. I think of my own class experience and think, “she didn’t plan an escape route. That sucks.”
Then, it occurs to me that giving up hasn’t even occurred to this woman. She is sticking through that class and doing the best she can. She is inspirational to me. I don’t want to stare at her anymore in case I made her feel self-conscious. I advert my eyes around the gym and notice just about everyone is watching the class just like me.
Since I am at the end of the row of machines, a lot of people looking in my direction. Shit, people have to look past my jiggling ass to watch these Spartans do their training. I immediately feel self-conscious and tell myself that they are looking past me, not at me. Also, lot of people are meandering around my machine. This annoys me to no end. I am happy to finish my workout.
As I make my way to my truck, I notice this guy yelling at a car. First, I think someone got in a fender bender or got a door ding, then I realize this is something deeper. This guy just got out of the gym, and I think this girl was trying to call him. As she ignores him and pretends to be busy with her phone, he verbally assaults her.
“IT’S INCONVENIENT FOR YOU? YOU HAD TO CALL ME? SO HARRASSING ME IS INCONVENIENT FOR YOU. YOU’RE A FUCKING PSYCHO! YOU HAVE A PROBLEM. GROW UP, AND SERIOUSLY, DO NOT CALL ME, DO NOT TALK TO ME.”
This is entertaining to me, for reasons that can be described by another story about my father. (I will not put it here, but I will do an entry to tell that story if you are interested.) I walk slower in order to inconspicuously listen, but the moment is over. The guy stalks off, and the girl attempts to look stone-faced at her phone, but as a girl, I know this game. She is upset and just does not want to let the guy win. The phone is merely a distraction. I play Tetris when I don’t want to talk to my husband.
Turns out, I am parked next to this girl. I climb in my truck and she is still sitting in her car, fiddling with the phone with her door open. I start the truck, roll down the windows, and grab my iPod.
As the first lines of “Love Hurts” by
Tomorrow is Monday, and I will resume running. My shoes feel a little broken in and my shin is feeling fine.
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