My Aversion to the Gym

Six months ago, I finally gave in. I had been touring local fitness centers for about a month, pricing them and checking out if I could ever see myself actually using these facilities. Generally, they ran from about seventy-five to a hundred and twenty dollars a month. No fucking way I was going to spend that kind of money every month on a place I knew would be loathsome to me. Finally, I alighted on a local public gym. It was unlike the 24 Hour Fitness or Club One. It was really basic, old school and kind of dingy, like an antiquated YMCA. It had a large basketball court – shooting hoops is one of the only “workout” activities I enjoy. And most importantly, it was only twenty-five bucks a month. So I decided I would give it a try. I could cancel any time, the lady at the front desk informed me.

For about three months I went pretty regularly, maybe three times a week. And then, of course, I fell off the fitness wagon and stopped going all together. I had been contemplating canceling my account, but it was on automatic billing and the first of the month came and went quickly. So yesterday I decided I would try yet again to get back into the swing of things. It was not easy.

Running around the basketball court, my lungs felt heavy and my legs felt weak. I persevered for about twenty minutes, but just wasn’t into it. I went into the room that had the cardio machines. Everywhere around me, seemingly healthy people worked out – the young girl with the tight ass pumping away on the Stairmaster, the fit septuagenarian man on the running machine, the forty-something guy reading his paper while easily riding the stationary cycle. His routine seemed the road of least resistance, so I chose the bike next to his, set it to medium, and began riding.

Seven minutes, thirty-six seconds passed and I had gone a mile and a half. My legs were burning and sweat was dripping off my brow. Good enough, I thought. The girl, the old dude, the newspaper man, were all still at their respective machines, working away. They were probably going to keep at it for another twenty minutes. I didn’t even go ten.

I went into the weight room and observed all the burly guys pumping iron. These are men who are truly in excellent physical condition, I thought, observing their bulging muscles and strenuous routines. They didn’t smoke cigarettes, blow rails or drink ten vodka-tonics in a night. Maybe some of them shot up steroids, though. I hit a few machines, worked the dumbbells and got out of there as quick as possible.

Finally, I was in the steam room: the one place where I can relax and kick back. My hands felt at my slightly bulging stomach: I had certainly put on weight in the last couple months. I knew I needed to be there but still didn’t like it.

I don’t want to be a slob or look bad. I take no pride in being out of shape and I intend to do something about it, as I have intended to do in the past. But I just can’t help feeling this difference between myself and other people at the gym. And I realize that this comes from inside me, not from others around me. Nobody can make me feel anything. I was an athlete in high school. I played varsity basketball for two years and was pretty damn good. I still play the game with a great deal of competence, even when I go up against the youngsters, teenagers who run like gazelles up and down the court, never needing a breather. I hit a baseball well at the batting cages; I play a solid game of touch football. So there’s no logical reason for me to feel strange at all about my physical abilities and in the context of playing sports I don’t. Yet the gym is an allergen to me and I really wonder why. Perhaps I’ll get to the root of the issue in the near future, as I am once again resigned to some kind of fitness regiment. After all, there has to be some time that can be put to good use between benders.