Weird Scenes Inside The Gym

 A while back I posted that I had started going to the gym to address some of my, for lack of a better term, health issues. Psychologically speaking, I decided to go for the very reason that I don't want to go. You can read more about that decision HERE. But for this post, suffice it to say that sometimes in life you just have to psyche yourself into doing even the most beneficial of things.

OK, so at least 3 days a week I wake up, have a cup of coffee and a healthful breakfast of sliced fruits, nuts and feta cheese. I don my gym clothes and saunter across the street to the gym. No, I don't drink raw eggs ala' Rocky, but I do raise my hands in victory after jaywalking my way through traffic. Sure, there's a crosswalk about 20 feet way, but, you know like, that would be too easy. Besides, statistically more accidents happen at intersections than in the middle of the road.

Anyway, the gym I go to is small, or at least the weight room where I work out in is. There is another much larger room that hosts aerobics classes of all forms. If Cheech and Chong were members of this gym, they'd probably hang out in the corner of the larger room. At times, this room seems to reverberate with waves of rainbow colored hues of stretchy fabric waxing, waning, and writhing in faux copulating movements. Reminded of the Doors' song "The End" and the lyric "weird scenes inside the gold mine", I've decided to  pass on these regular Dionysian orgies of spandex and lycra. Anyway, I don't do spandex; it makes me itch. So, I've opted to stick to the smaller room where most people wear cotton. It suits me fine.

Moreover, the larger room also has a disproportionately large amount of women doing 'squats'. Now, I once read an article on a phenomenon called menstrual synchrony concerning lunar fertility rhythms in ancient tribal communities. The women there would ovulate together on the full moons and then subsequently bleed together on the 'dark moons' (when the moon and sun are conjunct). Yes, the large room makes me nervous.

In the weight room, my basic workout regimen includes 15 minutes on a stationary bike, 20 minutes on a treadmill, assorted gesticulations on weight machines, and then another 20 minutes on the treadmill. Oh yeah, I have to do sit-ups, too. Alas, life ain't perfect.

Warming up on the stationary bike is great. It's comforting to know that my work out begins with my sitting down. I also appreciate that the chances of my falling off the stationary bike are very low. Also, the stationary bikes face the small TV hanging precariously over the heads of those huffing and puffing on the treadmills. Quite a choice of viewing options is on offer here: the morning news or bouncing butts (less 'Barbie and Ken', more 'Betty Boop' and 'Popeye' - for those of you who are more visual oriented).

Wimpy

OK, don't get me wrong: the truth is I'm not really one to comment on the physiques of other gym members. Honestly, I do want to say that I find most of the people who train or just workout at the gym very inspiring. Sure, it's easy to throw stones and crack stupid about who should be voted onto any one of those reality makeover TV shows that grace the airwaves. But let's be honest, looking in the mirror and seeing our own shortcomings can be very sobering. Trust me, my looking like Popeye would be a vast improvement over my looking like his friend Wimpy, or even Judd Jugmonger on a bad day. Though I've managed to lose about 10 pounds already, my naturally grown beer belly still protrudes a bit from under my t-shirt when not tucked into my pants. And, though I've been told that I am broad shouldered enough to pass for a weight lifter or wrestler, I'm no Arnold Schwarzenegger! Well, maybe I could pass for him if I grew a few inches, lost my gut, and stood in front of one of those circus mirrors.

Speaking of Arnold and my beer belly, I wanted to make it clear that attaining six-pack abs is not one of my goals. When undertaking any fitness program, you do need to set realistic goals... and if you saw me doing sit-ups, you'd most likely agree. Firstly, the Earth's gravity must have gotten much stronger since I last did sit-ups in a past life. I've given up on being able to reach my knees with my elbows more than once. A trainer told me to just focus on raising my shoulders off the floor a few inches, and to make sure I exhale on the way up. To my horror, I've learned that I breathe backwards! Now, I'm not sure if this is the result of a congenital disorder or what, but apparently with practice and patience, the condition is reversible. And yes, I'm making progress! Ground Control, we have lift off!

Now, when I first started using the treadmills, I was instructed to take it easy. "Walk, don't run" I was told. Fine, I can walk. My feet don't go in the same direction, but I can walk. In time, I discovered, it's not enough to just walk, however; you need to walk fast in order to get your heart pumping the sweat out of your pores. And, somewhere between your maximum and training target heart rates an endorphin rush lies, or so I've been told. Therefore, over time I've ramped up my walking speed. It did take me a couple of weeks to start sweating appropriately, but I am happy to say that now I'm flailing my legs around at a good pace, and I am only worried about at what high speed it would be safer to run than to walk. After all, I've only fallen off the treadmill ONCE, so safety is always an important consideration.

I've also made an amazing discovery: it turns out that I like perspiring. Lord, who would've thought that I, a former Miami native, who traveled way across the sea to get away from 12 months of insufferable sweltering persiration inducing Florida humidity, would end up enjoying warm sweat streaming down my body into my sneakers? But I do. I don't know if it's an 'endorphin rush' I'm experiencing, or just the good feeling of knowing that I'm actually realizing some of my health goals. When I get home after each workout and wring out my gym clothes I've peeled from my aching body, I smile knowing I made the right choice to get up off my ass and go to the gym.

So, for all you couch potatoes who can't decide on whether or not to take the gym plunge, I say  'JUST DO IT' and 'GO FOR IT', too! And, take heart: most of the pulling and pushing you see on those weight machines are done from a seated position!
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PS. Thanks for reading. Do you go to the gym? Do you like sweating or are you just generally a nervous type? How many times have you fallen off the treadmill? Be honest!

Suggested Listening: What I listen to on my MP3 player for my high energy workout:

   

   


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Intrasomatic Conspiracy: Part 4 - Going To The Gym (A New Hope)

"He who has health, has hope. And he who has hope, has everything." (Proverbs)

Mark Twain was credited as saying that the only way to keep your health is “to eat what you don't want, drink what you don't like, and do what you'd rather not.” So this month I decided to start going to the gym. Now, in light of Mr. Clemens’s logic, it’s easy to see that the very reason why I decided to start working out is precisely ... that I don't want to.

Follow me on this one. Being the radical behaviorist I am, I knew that my normal way of thinking would prevent me from ever getting into a reasonable semblance of good shape. And, the truth is that I do want to exercise, I know it's important…. and more importantly, I do want to feel good.Yet, I usually lack the combination of willpower, stamina, and zealous aptitude to maintain any sort of a health regimen for more than a week or two.

In the past, I've tried biking, as I mentioned in a previous post, but with disastrous results; broken elbows do tend to be off putting. I also tried waking each morning and walking along the nearby waterfront. Yes, I've heard Oprah Winfrey's Dr. Oz claim that if we walk 10,000 steps a day, we'll end up as fine specimens of 'cardiological' fitness. Unfortunately there is no guaranteeing craniological fitness, as well – as my feet would most likely agree. Bastards! They are equal accomplices in my body's Intrasomatic Conspiracy to deprive me of the achieving of physical fitness and the eating of smaller portions. Ok, in all fairness, I can’t blame them for the latter. And anyway, even without their interference, I'm really my own worst enemy in some respects; I'm clumsy and accident prone. I don't even walk properly! Here's why:

Reason #1:
When I was 15, I fell out of a tree, about 2 or 3 stories high. Now, don't ask me why I was in that tree but suffice it to say that I was just out on a limb, as usual. And there I was, perched up on high when I heard the "SNAP" of the branch. I felt the air rush up around me and then, as the Irish prayer goes, the road rose up to meet me. I was lucky. I landed on my feet ... briefly. My right ankle shattered and ended up somewhere around my knee. I also cracked my left heel upon impact, and for good measure I also fractured my left wrist ... after hitting the ground. My tree mates, who climbed down after me, claim they found me sprawled below laughing from the shock. Even with 3 mangled limbs, I still had a sense of humor.

Reason #2:
When I was 30, I developed a lower back problem from learning to drive my first car with a manual transmission. Really, that's what I attribute it to … much more than the 800-inch TV I tried carrying upstairs that sent me into spasms. No, it was the car. I'm from Florida, you see, where everything is flat. There are no hills to clamber up and no mountains to climb. In Miami, people don't know from stick shifts. Even the rich, who can afford Lamborghinis and Ferraris hire professional drivers to help them jaunt around town. Really, we Floridians just don't have the legs and backs for these types of automobiles. Nevertheless, I went out and bought a used 4-wheel ‘snowbird’ that originated in New York, complete with a stick shift and no air conditioning. The result: a herniated disc causing mind splitting sciatica in my left leg. And, mind you, that was my good leg ... except for its cracked heel, of course.

Reason #3:
A few years ago, at the age of 45, I developed a "straight neck", or so my orthopedic described it. This was caused by a hernia in my cervical spine... actually I think there were two hernias ... or at least one hernia and a half. I wrote that condition off to my learning to play the harmonica overaggressively. Others still tell me, it's because I sit at the computer all day. My orthopedic told me it’s because I had inflammation.

Anyway, from all the above you can see that going to the gym would not be indicated, at least to someone with my mindset. But the truth is that I live across the street from a gym and am getting pretty tired of feeling like a voyeur as I gaze over at the rolling sea of spandex, lycra and cellulite, all mocking me.

When I went public with my decision, most people were very supportive. Some, however, were not. My mother is never one to miss an opportunity to throw a bit of dour angst into the face of good intention. When I mentioned to her that I started going to a gym, she immediately seized the opportunity to wax fearful, "oh, don't over do it." I rasped incredulously "no, you're supposed to say good for you! You're supposed to be supportive here, not pusillanimous." Ok, she's 85 and even with her hearing aid she only wants to hear what she wants to hear anyway, so I can slip in words like pusillanimous, tremulous and timorous.

My mom has spent her entire life worrying about things. She goes to doctors and covers her ears and shakes her head. She has prescriptions filled and then refuses to take the medicine because she reads the accompanying inserts that warn: if you experience any of the following symptoms (blah, blah, blah ad nauseum), do not take this medication - or - taking this medication may cause (blah, blah, blah ad hominem) - or - .00000001 of research subjects experienced mild (blah, blah, blah ad mortem).

When I was younger, like most people my age, I started jogging after seeing the film Rocky. She quickly became disenfranchised with the idea and expressed her opinion "remember that guy who used to jog around the block every morning back in Westchester (South Miami, not New York (rolling eyes))? Do you know what happened to him? I heard his spine collapsed from jogging on a hard surface for so many years. You are not supposed to jog on a sidewalk or in the street." Rebuffing her, I retorted "fine, mom I'll walk to the beach and jog in the sand along the shoreline." She comes back swinging "I wouldn't do that. There's a lot of broken glass on the beach."

For someone who was constantly running to doctors and health stores, as well as reading Prevention Magazine back in the 70s, she most likely had other underlying reasons why she was so against my becoming physically fit. In our discussion, her battery of words included such doom and gloom gems such as strain, sprain, twist and pull. Ok, maybe it's because I was wild, accident prone and on more than one occasion spent some time in hospital emergency rooms. Such was my youth, but still, she has her own issues that I'll blog about another time. Suffice it to say that our conversation about my going to the gym ended like this:

Mom:  What do you need to do THAT for?
Jay:      Cause the cardiologist told me my heart was fine, but that I was fat and out of shape.
Mom:  You don't need to over do it.
Jay:      Did I say I was overdoing it?
Mom:  You should exercise by yourself. What do you need to go there for?

Jay:      'Cause I don't have an excuse not to get up and drag my lazy butt, that doesn't want to exercise anyway, across the street to use the weights and machines they have there. I don't have the will power to do it myself.

Mom:  You're going to pull something. Why can't you just take a walk?

Jay:      I will take a walk ... across the street to the gym.

Mom:  Don't overdo it. I believe in moderation. That's what I say.
Jay:      Fine. So you can have your moderate health, as opposed to good health.
             I'm going to the gym.

Needless to say, the next day I went to the gym and overdid it.... on purpose.

Only time will tell whether or not my new mindset and gym going 'misdemeanor' will succeed in quashing the Intrasomatic Conspiracy I've been describing. In the meantime, while I await my promised endorphin rush and enjoy the warm trickle of perspiration from a good workout, I am left to wonder: how fast can I walk on the treadmill before I have to run?

PS. Thanks for reading this series. I'll report on my actual gym experiences in a future post, but in the meantime, here are the questions of the week: Do you go to the gym? Why or why not?  Have you experienced an endorphin rush or do you just enjoy sweating? Are you allergic to Spandex? Let me know!

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Previous 'Intrasomatic Conspiracy' Posts:
Intrasomatic Conspiracy: Part 1 - An Ill Wind Blows

Intrasomatic Conspiracy: Part 2 - Attack of the Medical Acronyms

Intrasomatic Conspiracy: Part 3 - The Inflammation Wars

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Suggested Reading:

   
  



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