Sleepwalking my way through life: Gyme? What's a Gyme?



Gyme? What's a Gyme?

Three flights of stairs. I looked up at them with a feeling of hopelessness. After tackling the two miles from my house at a fast paced walk, I was expected to climb three flights of stairs on top of that? I grimaced and began my weary journey up the steps, lugging my bag along with my shoulder. I pushed through the door in front of me and walked into the gym, brushing a bead of sweat from my brow.

The first time I stepped into the gym I had found it so… sterile. The treadmills were lined up uniformly in front of a mirror, as were the stepping machines, and an assortment of strength building machines were dotted in between. Everything was so new and modern; a computer system kept track of my exercise regime while a special key activated each machine. A personalised message flashes up on the screen, welcoming me to my workout and asking me for allotted times. You would jog on the treadmill for the set time of eight minutes before the screen cheerily directed you to the next machine for a workout.

This all came as a shock to me. I expected a dirty place, the machines greasy and covered in grime. The mats would be stained to match the walls, which themselves would be yellowing with age and damp. The machines would be old, bolts and screws visible and rusted weights. In one corner there would be a cracked mirror and some scales, and in another there would be a lone punching bag, swinging ominously from a rusted chain. A middle-aged fat man would run it; unsightly stains down the front of his once white vest and a few dark chest hairs poking over the neckline. The regulars would be huge; lifting large weights silently in deep contemplation. There would be one who was different, who jumped from machine to machine with loud gusto; a Brad Pitt lookalike who was quick on his feet with cunning in every step.

But my imagination, spoiled with seedy and violent films, could not prepare me for a broad smiled greeting with sparkling braces. She led me happily round every machine, showing me how it all works, and left with a skip in her step. I was awestruck. There were no hulking men, no oddly stained mats, no gruff-but-friendly owner; the place was filled with overweight business men and bored housewives. They moved from one machine to another, never breaking the air-conditioned silence between them. I nervously kept my head down and started up the treadmill, ignoring them as they were ignoring me.

When I stepped into the gym I also had the preconception that after one session I would be done. My stomach would have tightened and my arms widened, meaning I could walk down the street with little insecurities about myself. There would be some jogging involved, of course, with a songs about tigers and eyes playing triumphantly in the background as I climbed those three flights of stairs.

Needless to say, I was wrong.
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1 Comments:

At 3:19 pm, Anonymous Natalie said...

Hahaha. I know what you mean. Now that I'm back from summer, I just started my normal gym routine yesterday.

It was horrible. It never gets better or easier to go, sadly.

 

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