So I’ve been hitting the gym regularly. I have to say that what “they” say is true…the gym is about 5,324 times more crowded the first few weeks of the New Year. Resolutions and all, apparently. Annoying, definitely. I’ve tried several different times to go and guess I will stick with my usual time of 7:00 a.m. The “have to get my workout in before work” group is on the way out at 7 a.m. and the “my kids have finally left for school” crew hasn’t arrived yet. I am pretty sure, and “they” confirm, that it will lighten up again as the New Year resolutions people go back to their old habits of not going to the gym regularly.
*I will not be one of those*
The gym is a funky place. It’s been eons (my new fave word, by the way) since I’ve belonged to a gym. The one I belong to now, Onelife Fitness, is brand new and they are growing. It’s nice and clean, both in the women’s locker and out on the fitness floor. Equipment is all shiny and new. One of the funky things I like is the wide array of people. There are serious work-out people there like my trainer, who went to school with the Big (Graduate) Boy and My Girl. She played basketball in college and, while I was there today, was next to me on the treadmill in a flat out run for 30 minutes. There are also a ton of seriously senior, senior citizens. Speaking of which, I don’t know how it rolls over the in the men’s locker room, for obvious reasons, but in the ladies locker room, the older the lady, the more inclined she is to not be modest.
That’s all I’m gonna say about that.
Most of the men at the gym, by the way, all think they are Da Bomb. They strut, they flex, they spend an inordinate amount of time standing in front of the mirror gazing at themselves, whether actually working out or not. Women are there to Work. It. The men spend more time standing around, wandering back and forth between the racks of free weights and coming up with extremely awkward moves on the Smith Machine. When I was there today, every treadmill in the place was in use. By women. Two men were on elliptical machines. One man, an older gentleman, was barely moving but kept on moving; the other man was totally engrossed in One Life to Live, but had a good pace going.
The ladies locker room is a really interesting place. Over the last week or so I’ve run into the following there:
…a young woman putting on fresh make-up before working out…a ton of it;
…three ladies who arrived together, spent forever chatting in the locker room, before wandering around the fitness center watching each other “try out” the equipment, all the while chatting and laughing and clearly enjoying socializing, and successfully avoiding getting sweaty;
…a woman who worked out really, really hard, was absolutely drenched with sweat and came into the locker room where she used a paper towel to wipe up her arm pits and then put her work clothes on, including heels and headed on out, presumably to go back to the office. She did reapply deodorant, but no shower, no toweling down;
…a young woman who, following her workout, showered and dried her hair and put on her make-up having brought all of this into the locker room in two medium sized suitcases clearly used for just such an occasion.
Before you wonder, I don’t spend a lot of time in the locker room. All of the above I’ve observed during my quick in and out. Although I admit I spend a few minutes mentally psyching myself and walking through, in my mind, how I want my workout to go. And I always spend a few minutes after my workout checking my phone for text messages and phone calls and finishing off my bottle of water if I hadn’t done so during my workout.
Also, check out my cute new lock…
I really thought I would be self-conscious in the gym, but I’m not. Clearly, there is an unwritten rule about keeping your eyes to yourself and no checking out other folks while they are working out. I like that rule. That one and the wipe down your equipment before and after use rule.
My favorite rule, however, is my own personal rule. I begin every workout with the same song on my iPod (which I’ve lost, somewhere in the house, dang it) or my iPhone…
Enter Sandman in honor of my Andy B’s. Training like a freak, boy…