So one morning, I woke up feeling bold. Brave. Delusional. I looked in the mirror and thought, “Yeah. Today’s the day. I’m gonna start working out. I’m gonna be fit. I’m gonna have abs. Maybe even a neck vein.”
I don’t know where this thought came from — possibly a hallucination brought on by eating gas station sushi the night before — but I threw on some athletic wear that hadn’t seen the light of day since quarantine, grabbed a water bottle I definitely didn’t plan on using, and marched into the local gym like I knew what I was doing.
First red flag: everyone in there looked like they either just finished a fitness competition or were training for one. One guy had a protein shake in one hand and what looked like a small tree trunk in the other. A girl was doing squats so perfectly, I briefly considered hiring her as a life coach. Meanwhile, I was just trying to remember which pocket my phone was in without looking like I was touching myself.
But I was committed. I decided to start slow and hit the treadmill. Easy. Safe. Walking. I could do that.
So I climb on, press a few buttons, and accidentally set the speed to "escape a mountain lion." Suddenly, I’m sprinting for my life, one headphone flies out, and my ponytail is having a seizure behind me. I try to play it cool, like this is my normal cardio pace, but I’m breathing like I just ran from airport gate B3 to gate Z99.
Then I try to slow it down, but instead of “speed down,” I hit “incline up.” Now I’m sprinting uphill like I’m in some kind of Rocky training montage — only with way more panic and way less background music. My feet are slapping the treadmill like I’m tap dancing for Satan, and my heart rate monitor is basically calling 911 on my behalf.
To end this graceful performance, I do what can only be described as an uncoordinated Olympic dismount. I flung myself onto the emergency stop key like a sacrifice to the gym gods, rolled off the treadmill, and just laid there, contemplating my life decisions while pretending I meant to do all of it.
A personal trainer came over and asked if I needed help. I told him I was “cooling down” and “just doing some floor work.” He nodded, clearly used to people lying to his face.
At this point, you’d think I’d leave. No. I’m too stubborn. I thought, “Okay, maybe I’m not a treadmill person. Maybe I’m a weights person.”
So I walk over to the free weights section, where everyone looks like they chew creatine and anger for breakfast. I grab two dumbbells that look reasonable, but apparently are filled with solid shame. I do one bicep curl and nearly black out. A guy next to me with biceps the size of my actual hopes and dreams gives me a thumbs up. I nod back, but I can’t lift my arms anymore, so it looks like I’m just aggressively shrugging.
After what felt like twelve years, I put the weights back (by “put back,” I mean “quietly drop and pretend that was part of the plan”), and make my final move: the water fountain. Only it’s out of order. Of course it is. Because this gym is built on pain, lies, and muscle milk.
So I left. Drenched in sweat. Spiritually defeated. Physically humbled.
I got home, collapsed on the floor, and opened a bag of chips with shaking hands. And you know what? I regret nothing.
Because now, when someone asks, “Do you work out?” I can say, “Yeah, I tried once. I survived. Barely.” And that’s enough for me.
Now I “work out” at home. Which means I occasionally stretch while looking for the remote. Sometimes I do a squat to pick up a dropped Cheeto. It’s all about balance.
