When I was young, I longed for the time when I could finally be classified as an adult and be considered old enough to make my own decisions for my life. Oh, the choices I thought I would be finally able to institute! ONLY sugared cereal for breakfast, cake or sweets at any and all times of the day, staying up until well after midnight watching TV every night of the week!
What a surprise it was to find out that growing up came with strings attached, including the alarming fact that being an adult takes maintenance. Bombshell!
I was thinking about this whole idea of adult maintenance this morning when I was at the gym. Rather, what I found myself thinking was that regardless of the fact that working out is (allegedly) good for my physical well-being, I despise going to the gym. I have always despised going to the gym, but I have (more or less) stayed in the habit of going.
Even when I was in my prime.
Even when I smoked a pack a day.
Even after I retired from the job that I needed to have some muscle in order to accomplish.
To me, working out in the weight room is the cod liver oil of my life—something that I do only because it is good for me but never because I enjoy doing it.
I don’t find my Zen at the gym. I find smugness at the gym. The thought of, “Well at least THAT’S done”, gives me a sense of satisfaction based entirely on the fact that I won’t have to give physical exercise any further thought until the next day (or, more likely, the day after that) and that I have accomplished at least One Thing today. If you don’t work out, picture the feeling you get after cleaning out the cat’s litter box. Same thing.
After years spent in a gym, it has become apparent to me that no matter what gym you go to or how old you are or what kind of work out you are there to give yourself, you are usually surrounded by the same types of people. These days I find myself working out beside the same personalities that I worked out with when I was first introduced to the gym, even though the faces have changed. Back then, I paid an arm and a leg for a membership at a swanky gym that had very nice bathrooms. Over time I’ve been a gym member at progressively less swanky spots as my intentions and expectations have lessened. For several years now, I have carried a membership at the local community centre. Their gym is well equipped; their bathrooms are at best adequate. That doesn’t really bother me much as I am almost robotic on my trips to the gym. I get in, I put in the least amount of effort that I think I can get away with, I get out. Nice and clean.
That’s not everyone’s experience though.
Some people love to work out, and it shows. And they are eager to show that it shows. They’ll show anyone how much their working out shows. They are often the ones who grunt or gasp audibly so that everyone will know just how much effort they are putting in and how darn heavy the weights are that they use. This sort of person is shunned. Don’t be a grunter.
Some people think that the gym is the day-version of a nightclub and dress to be seen. They wear clothes, nay, outfits, that flatter and highlight their bodies. The women wear lipstick. The men come with their hair gelled. Good luck with that.
The people with the muscle-y-est bodies give off an air of pure business. They know they are impressive, and they are there make the most of their workouts. The cool ones are efficient and quiet. The rest spend a generous amount of time watching themselves in the mirrors, just as impressed as the rest of us.
The people who I find the most compelling and deserving of everyone’s admiration are the ones who have had an injury or surgery and are in the gym rehabbing—doing the same painful exercises day after day in order to gain or regain as much strength as their bodies can manage. The people who step up to the rack of dumbbells and without any hint of self-consciousness pick up the lightest ones, their goals set on the day they can move up to the next set. They are the humble stars of the gym.
The same goes for the older people who show up with a walking stick or with a shuffle and proceed to put in their time on the treadmill or rowing machine or stationary bike—often still attired in their street clothes. Those people are stronger than the strongest of the muscleheads, in my books, because it takes real grit for them to show up at all.
My own populated category is that of the unexceptional gym-goer who everyone is familiar with, but who isn’t there to be chummy. I’m the kind who keeps their head down and moves briskly through their same old routine, wasting no time between sets doomscrolling on their phone. The kind who wears the same ill-fitting attire every time they show up. The kind who leaves the gym with a smug look on their face.
Such is a cross section of the society of people drawn to any gym. Each of us dedicates a percentage (however small that might be!) of our week to lifting weights or pushing cardio or logging miles of stationary travel, because it is in some way good for us.
The thing that I dread, after all of these years dedicated to this despised form of adult maintenance, is that someone will finally decide that working out is actually harmful to one’s health and that we should just sit around eating sugared breakfast cereal from the box and get less sleep after all!
