Day 283: Gym Diaries Part 1

The last piece required me to write about a specific group of people.  I chose the gym.

Gym Diaries

     If you would have told me three years ago that I would be regularly attending the gym, I would have laughed at you and continuing surfing the Web on the couch.  Physical fitness is important, especially with technology restricting how much we need to exert ourselves, but I have never liked working out.  You get hot, sweat seeps from the pores on your face, and your legs start to burn after only a few minutes into the workout.  That couch at home becomes the only thing you can think about.  Well, I have changed in three years, and I actually like going to the gym.  I still hate how tired you feel during the workout, and getting me to go some days is like repeatedly poking a fresh sore with a toothpick, but I’ll go.  Nothing beats what you feel after the workout is over: exhaustion, relief, and accomplishment.   

     A typical day at the gym can be chaotic but always eventful.  When I first open the doors to Pearl City’s 24 Hour Fitness, my senses are barraged.  Pitbull’s “Don’t Stop the Party” blares from the overhead radio.  A couple of women in their thirties, dressed in their slim-fitting Lululemon, chat loudly in the middle of the room by the front desk.  Sweaty men walk past me to doors.  I enter my number at the key pad and wait for the machine to register my fingerprint.

     “Have a good workout!” a young raven-haired woman smiles over her shoulder at me before turning back to her computer screen and answering a member’s question.

     I take one of the hand towels stretched out on the counter and round the corner of the desk.  Treadmills, stair climbers, and elliptical machines are resolute soldiers facing the open windows.  TVs dangle from the ceiling and smaller ones poke up at the front of some equipment.  More than half of the machines are filled.  I happen to see a woman standing on the sides of her treadmill while the belt is still running.  She guzzles her water and then stands there instead of walking for her break.  A few machines down on a stair climber, a woman is taking exaggerated strides up every other step.  Her elbows are bent as her body leans forward, perhaps to take some of the pressure off her legs. 

     I make my way past the chrome railing that sections off the stretching area and head towards the stairwell.  I merge into the right hand line of people slowly walking down while sweaty-faced people trudge up the stairs in the line on my left.  At the bottom, a couple people dressed in t-shirts and gym shorts are sitting in the metal chairs by the women’s bathroom.  Almost under the stairwell, I hear a young Asian grunting as he punches and kicks the punching bag.  Next to the stairwell, the line for the weight-lifting class extends out into the middle of the room.

     No sooner than ten seconds after I take my place in line, a guy with a military haircut stands by me.

     “Excuse me.”

     “Oh sure.”  I step back a couple paces to let him get to the weight machines on the other side of the line, but before I can walk back, a couple cross through the gap from the opposite side.  I realize I should probably keep the space I created.