Exercism

Intimidating or spine-chilling physical psyche-outs possess a fitness center client

 Photo and sculpture by Celia Story
Photo and sculpture by Celia Story

— There comes a moment in our lives when it becomes vitally important to exercise, to slow down the inevitable effects of aging. Unfortunately that moment is seconds after birth.

It used to be that exercise was something athletes did; the rest of us got along just fine by simply living. When living included carrying around hogs or toting steel girders to the top of skyscrapers, going home to conduct more physical activity seemed a little silly.

Today we have incessant television ads imploring our youngsters to get out there and exercise … for one hour a day. We see our offspring supine on enormous couches, eating swollen burritos, sucking drinks from gargantuan cups or swigging tiny “energy” drinks, watching “reality” TV or playing violent video games.

Maneuvering burly video game characters across a screen is the closest some will come to vigorous activity - and the closest thing to “life-extending” action is built into the games: Characters get multiple lives.

Making fun of our lardy youth hardly seems sporting (although the stress release that is making oneself feel better at the expense of others cannot be overestimated). I’m actually much like those lardy youths. Lardy, yes;

youthful, not so much. Sometimes I exercise, most times I don’t. My exercise regimen consists of walking my dog. And that’s about it.

Pathetic, but the dog likes it.

Seriously though, there’s a lot to be said for being fit. For example: the ability to zip up (your) pants, successfully climb stairs, plan outings not based on the location of portable defibrillators.

So one morning, idly poking at the bulging sack of flesh known as my waist, I decided to “get healthy.”

I did what most Americans do: I forked over some cash. I joined a health club. A fitness center. A gym. Whatever they call these places these days.

I’ve had gym memberships before, at dank places that seemed as healthy as an H.P. Lovecraft dungeon, and yet the habit of going to the gym, using the gym, never took.

But this time I knew I would make it work.

I would do it this time.

To ensure that I did, I would record my impressions as I made my way toward my new, exercised self.

What follows are those impressions.

THE FACILITY

Part of my problem is intimidation. Walk into the average gym and prepare to be overwhelmed. Row after row of hulking weight machines sit separated by a strident line of stair-steppers. Ranks of gray treadmills and elliptical machines assault the eyes.

The whirring, clanking of machines, free weights and the grunting of the customers assault the ears.

Surprisingly, the weakest sensory assault is upon the nostrils; perhaps healthy people have evolved scentless sweat glands. Or maybe advanced smell abatement devices have been developed.

The whole thing looks like a scene from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis: rows of machines being serviced by the workers. Although the exercisers more accurately resemble the manager characters. Almost too much to take in.

And for only a few dollars a month, it can all be yours.

THE OTHER PEOPLE

Glancing from person to person can be depressing. Here we have a guy who treads effortlessly on a treadmill, there a woman ellipticates wildly on an elliptical. In the back, the ring of metal on metal emanates from the labors of muscled he-men and she-women.

All of these people radiate health, spewing it forth like the cloud of smoke that billows from huddled backdoor smokers.

To get to the point, these physically fit folks … I hate them immediately.

When you walk into a club, you may look at these specimens and be impressed and depressed, but they’re not the person you’re looking for.

No, you’re looking for that one special person.

You’re looking for the guy or gal who’s in worse physical condition than you. This wimpy person allows you to gloat a tiny little gloat, a minuscule, pathetic gloat. Because in your petty little mind you can say: “At least I’m not as out of shape as he is.”

You’ve come to this place to improve your health, to improve your life, even to extend your life. Important stuff, one would say.

And the first thing you do is exercise a little schadenfreude.

THE COMMITMENT

I did all the things one does upon joining a gym. I blathered on about how committed I am, what my “goals” are.

I didn’t voice my main goal: Get fit enough to stifle the shocked, then derisive laughter when I take off my shirt.

I nodded knowingly when I was shown the machines. Sure, used them before, I assured the disgustingly fit trainer.

Yeah, I’ll wipe down the machines when I finish. Not really though, because I’m a rebel. What’s a little sweat among friends?

In spite of my earlier declarations of competence, I used the machines incorrectly. I fell short of pinning myself beneath a set of barbells or flinging myself off a treadmill, but I did quickly realize that my ’80s era shorts were much shorter than those worn by the other patrons.

I thought about just letting it go, continuing to wear my ratty gray shorts and my dirty lawn-mowing shoes. But I didn’t, because I wanted the cool kids to like me.

The best exercise was shopping for trendy attire; by pricing new shoes, I significantly elevated my heart rate.

THE PAIN

Inevitably I overexercised on my first visit, stretching muscles dormant since the Clinton administration. My taffy-pulled muscles were so sore I had to crawl into my car the next morning. That evening I stood motionless in the living room, muttering through clenched teeth: “Oil can, oil can.”

More sessions followed. I felt better, some, perhaps because I was making the effort.

THE OUTCOME

A couple of months later ... yes, weeks passed in which I returned to the gym and made more of the effort ... I sat on a cold vinyl exercise machine seat, trying to tune out the percussive clanking of metal on metal, trying to ignore the derisive laughter (I might have imagined that). And then I realized I didn’t have it. I didn’t have what it takes, the gumption to feed myself into the exercise machine and plop out the other side a model fitness consumer.

I don’t much like that realization, but I’m trying desperately to rationalize it anyway.

I’ll do things the old-fashioned way, by getting a “healthy” job. Get work as an anvil stacker or a cheetah wrangler; I hear there’s an opening in the Augean stable.

I’m not giving up on health. I’m still going to try. But I’ll try not to beat myself up about it, especially considering how easily that could be done. Guilt and obesity are a poor combination.

So I know the drill: Get exercise as often as I can, make it interesting, make it count.

I guess I’ll just have to walk the dog a lot farther.

ActiveStyle, Pages 27 on 07/04/2011

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