Photo by Martin Barak
It starts with the doors. The doors are always too heavy. It is not enough to just know you are out of shape. The doors need to remind you too.
The complexity of the machinery is a further reminder of your cluelessness. Metal clatters to the rubber mats. The music of muscle-making is deafening. The regulars shout to one another in gym vernacular. They lean by the water fountains, bragging about the pink powder no college student should be able to afford. You triple click the volume button on your phone.
The treadmill tucked into the corner seems the least intimidating. You press the start button. Nothing happens, nothing remarkable. The belt rolls at half a mile per hour. You pound the screen, frantically trying to make it faster before you become a meme. You know you look ridiculous when you finally find the speed setting, and the belt zips under your feet.
This is not so bad. You lift your legs high, leaping the length of the treadmill. You imagine yourself becoming one of those people who run half marathons at five in the morning, coming home to a protein shake and a shower before heading to class. Why did it take so long for you to start doing this? You glance at the screen to see how far you have gone.
Half a mile.
“That’s it?” you shout at the machine. Your legs suddenly feel heavy. You are aware of the layer of bouncing fat on your thighs. You wonder if anyone is watching. Like if maybe the woman beside you who is running a million miles a minute is judging you for your years of large pizzas and beer refills.
You try to get back into your feeling-like-Black-Widow groove, but it is gone. You pound the stop button, gasp in relief as the belt slows. You grab your water bottle, hurriedly exiting the building.
You resolve to never return. It is enough to be smart and with a killer personality, right? Nobody is perfect.