I went to the gym today.
This shouldn't be big news, but to me it is. After several weeks of being in recovery mode
from various ridiculous diseases and conditions, I have finally made it back to
the Y three times in the last few weeks, doing exercise, cardio, weightlifting,
and trying a couple of classes.
As anybody who regularly reads my blog also knows, I am
recovering from a broken ass cheek.
Okay, it was a pulled muscle or some such, but it felt like a broken ass cheek to me. This I got from running on something other
than the treadmill; I ran the tar track behind my old junior high school, the
same track I couldn't run in seventh grade without hacking up a lung. Cut me some slack - I'd never had gym before
and never had to run the 600 before, so I started out at a sprint.
But I digress (like that's
a surprise).
Taking exercise classes at the Y is a crapshoot. I know this because I've done it for
years. I've also taken cardio-kickboxing
at a real gym and spent a few years attempting judo and being tossed around as
one of the Olympians' dummies before they went off to wherever it is they went
off to -- Athens, Sparta, Corinth, and Megara.
(Note to self and others: When
scouting a new sport, try not to sign up at the Olympic training center, if you
can avoid it, unless you don't have a fragile ego or, in my case, no ego
whatsoever so it doesn't matter how much of a dumbass you look like).
(Shit, I digressed again.)
Classes at the Y are run by really nice, interesting
people. There's the cute little young'un
with the soft voice who suddenly goes all Werewolves
of London when the doors close, screaming like a possessed drill sergeant
and scaring the piss out of the participants.
If she wants fifty squats, you might want to give her sixty in case she's
still hungry. There are two muscle
conditioning teachers, one who has an obsession with squat jumps (talk about
pulled gluts … no, maybe we shouldn't), and one who still thinks it's the
1980's and loves to grapevine and clap, reminding me that even the Marcarena
has seen its last day. There are also
the two Pilates teachers, one who tortures us to roll into balls, and the other
who thinks The Hundred is closer to The Hundred and Eighty. But I'm kind of stretching the truth
here. You see, yes, these instructors really
do these things, but they are truly effective trainers, they show up, they work
as hard as we do, and I wouldn't trade any of them. Well, maybe the Grapevine Lady because I
can't dance to save my soul.
(Where the hell was I going with this, again? Oh yeah, the gym.)
At my age, exercising is a necessary evil and an adrenaline
rush. Sure I eye the defibrillator
somewhere around the middle of the class to make sure help is nearby, and sure
when I'm out walking or running (a little bit) alone, I usually leave my phone
behind and try to stay on main roads with a decent amount of traffic in case I
keel over and need immediate medical assistance. But the feeling I get when I leave the gym is
one of triumph - I am winning the war on aging just a teeny bit, or so I wish
to believe.
When people can't believe my age, I hope and pray it's
because they think I look younger and not because they are in complete
disbelief since they thought I was at least ten years well-beyond the number
I've shared. I ran this experiment
yesterday at the bar with some work buddies, gauging their reactions when I
fessed up that yes, I am over thirty.
(Okay, they got the real number, not the one divided by pi.) I felt pretty good leaving there, and I don't
even care if they were completely shit-faced, laughed behind my back, or
high-fived each other for pulling a fast one on me. I was happy, and that's pretty much what
exercising is about. Oh, that and flab.
(What the … honestly, can you say "space
cadet"? Sure you can; I knew you
could.)
So, in conclusion, I … um … went to the gym, blah blah ass
cheek, blah blah judo, blah blah werewolves dancing the Marcarena, blah blah old
age, blah blah pi. Pie? PIE?!
With that thought, folks, I am going to find some sugar and undo all of
the great things I sweated to do in the first place.
(Christalmighty, one of these days I'm going to stay on
topic.) (No, I'm really not.)
