On my quest to improve my self image, a sputtering sort of quest that I’ve discussed extensively, I’ve included physical fitness. I’m not out to become the next Jillian Michaels, but I would like to be able to run a 5k without throwing up on the sidewalk. So, after a few weeks of getting settled into college (i.e. procrastinating), I decided to take a trip to the Rock.
Look at it. Isn’t it frightening?
I didn’t want to go alone, so I brought along my boyfriend, who isn’t exactly a fitness junkie himself. He was enthusiastic about the prospect, whereas I dragged my feet. However, I cannot stress this enough – if you’re nervous about going to the gym, bring a buddy. Someone you feel comfortable with, and perhaps someone that’s starting out as well (but that’s just for my own ego, if you feel motivated next to an Olympic caliber athlete, be my guest).
We wandered around the gym for a few minutes, looking for something to do. It was 5:00pm on a Sunday evening, so there weren’t many people. I passed a row of weight machines and barbells and pondered a bit. I have a friend whose approach to weight loss can be summarized in one cliche, “Go big or go home.” She does squats, deadlifts, and all those scary things you only hear about in The Biggest Loser. And her body looks great. “Hmm…” I thought, “Maybe I should try those.”
Behold, a swarm of giant sculpted men filtered in, grunting and sweating and setting the machines to over 200 pounds.
NOPE.
Now, some women thrive in the company of strange men, especially at the gym. But these are confident women, you see, and I’m not quite there yet. I inched away and settled on a stationary bike. My boyfriend sat beside me, cracking jokes all the while. “They look like monsters,” he said, looking at the men bench-pressing the weight of half a cow. I felt a little better.
After adjusting the seat of my bike a little (because man, those seats hurt), I began to scan the row of buttons, which looked something like this:
“What resistance are you on?” I asked my boyfriend, confused by the arbitrary numbers.
“10.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. Seems right.”
Those of you that know how to use a gym are probably laughing at me right now. I could certainly feel everyone laughing. Even if they hadn’t noticed my very existence, they were laughing. Amazing how insecurity warps all sense of logic.
All right, 10 it is.
My headphones broke around minute three. Do you know how awful it is to pedal over and over without any sort of music or distraction or anything? To make matters worse, the stationary bikes in the Rock are perched right above the lobby, on a balcony of sorts. Is the bike going to break? Will I topple over the railing and smash my face on the floor, leaving the other passersby to gaze at my oozing, sweaty innards?
The panic took my mind off the boredom, as sad as that sounds.
Boyfriend didn’t even have headphones and he was in the zone, climbing hills and all. He didn’t seem to hear me when I tried to talk. I envied his concentration, his unadulterated focus, the fact that his heart rate wasn’t an embarrassing 160 beats. I’m just pedaling! Why does it feel like death?
I leapt off the bike 15 minutes in.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m tired!”
I felt pathetic, awful, useless, and disgustingly sweaty. The crazy monster men were still there, lifting and straining. A lithe blonde jogged past in her sports bra and Lululemons, and I picked at my oversized t-shirt. Fifteen minutes at the gym and I felt like a quarter of my mental self.
Will I be going back? Of course. You don’t get to have an enviable physique by whining, do you?
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