A Trip to the Gym: A Memoir

As part of my college kid, new me shin-dig that I've been doing, I've been forcing myself to make the mile long bike ride (uphill in both directions) to the on campus gym, henceforth to be known as the IMA. You walk through the shiny glass doors, which are evidently thoroughly clean with windex at least a few times a day, you see exactly what you'd expect out of a state-of-the-art workout center; a smoothie bar featuring some obscure kale drink sits to the right of the front entrance, a Welcome Center with a desk that has been painted to make look as if it were built out of mahogany wood stands directly in front, and a college student (who probably believes he should be with his other health-enthusist friends, lifting all the weights) is working the I.D. swipe to allow members enter the rest of the building. 

Once you make it past I.D. boy, you've got a few options. Some people head straight to the locker rooms where they unload their spilling duffle bags into pitiful metal lockers, others head straight to one of three workout rooms, stopping only momentarily to grab a sweat towel or fill up their Eco-friendly water bottle (#Seattle). The gym is usually bursting with wonderfully muscular men lifting larger than life weights, and healthier-than-thou- women working the matted floors. The rest of the beautiful people typically spend their waiting time for their turn at said stations sweating rivers as they pound down on the treadmill, or working those intense looking stair machines. 

And then there's me. 

You can find 4'7" me barely keeping up on the treadmill set at half the speed of the average sized human next to me. I last maybe 15 minutes, if I'm lucky, and chug half my bottle of water (the other half spills all over my face), as I walk to the mats, pausing only briefly to catch the slightly disgusted stare of the girl stretching next to me. My hamstrings are on fire- even though my friend who runs for his school's track team tells me that the calves are the ones that are supposed to hurt. I reach down to touch my toes, holding my breath as I finish my five second count down. Standing up, proud of myself, j notice the girl next to me has switched from an arm stretch to her center splits. As I glance at the mirror I see a man, who looks no younger than 50, doing an ab work out that makes him look like a squirming bug- it looks easy enough so I make the mistake of trying it myself. I do ten and collapse on my back, feeling a pool of sweat collect on the plastic mat below me. As I try to sit up, I attempt to wipe away the sweat with my jacket (that I brought because last time I saw a lot of people on the treadmill still wearing their fleece-lined sweatshirts), but only manage to fall over- something I attempt to disguise as some obscure stretch. 

Next comes the lifting. I approach the boxes of dumbbells and select two purple 15 pounders. After lifting them out of their box I quickly set them down again and exchange them for a far more appropriate set of seven pounds. 20 minutes later, I can't feel my arms and am fairly certain I pulled a muscle in my leg- don't ask me how. But I keep my cool and casually stroll out of the room to approach the water fountain, which I proceed to drain ceremoniously. I proceed to leave the lovely building with thoughts of devouring a taco- after all, I earned it.

And then I remember I brought my bike. We're just going not talk about the 10 minute uphill adventure.