i wanna quit the gym.
I’ve had a long on-again / off-again relationship with the gym. I join them every few years, usually in the midst of stressful work periods or super sad days when I realize I can no longer pull my pants up past my kneecaps. Like many other gym hopefuls, I always start strong. I buy new sports bras and colorful sneakers, load my Ipod with heart-pumping jams and start having daydreams of looser pants. At one point in my early 20s, I went religiously four times a week and had abs you could grate cheese on. Of course, at the time I was dating someone who tracked every meal on his Blackberry and did Iron-Man competitions for amusement. That relationship was doomed from the start.
But lately I’ve come to dread the gym more than a reasonable amount, and I think I’ve figured out why. As part of this whole “responsible adult” thing, I have a job. I don’t mind going to this job so much–in fact, most days I really like it–but this job of mine takes place in a dark, windowless room. I stay in this room, on average 8-10 hours a day, four days a week, and very rarely have a chance to step outside for a touch of sunlight or a pinch of fresh air. This bothers me. A lot. It bothers my brain, it bothers my soul and it bothers my spirit. It bothers my legs too. Last week I could have sworn I heard my thighs whisper in desperation, “Lady, we’re dyin’ here. Move already!“
Still, the idea of going to the gym, essentially one more windowless cave, has become extraordinarily unappealing. So like Chandler and Ross before us, Vin and I rounded the corner, walked up to the front desk where we signed up two years ago and declared “We wanna quit the gym.”
But of course, because it’s the gym, they were gonna make us work for it.
Instead of deleting our names from the computer or stripping us of our little swipey cards at the front desk, we’d have to write two letters expressing our desire for gym termination and mail them to their main office. We’d get charged for the next billing cycle, still three weeks away.
So I went to the post office and paid $12 to mail two certified letters to an office one block away from my house. The postman looked at me like I was the laziest person alive. My thighs whispered, “Way to go, Champ. We knew you could make it all the way to the post office.”
And so yesterday, instead of rushing my way through a stomp routine on the elliptical, I took a brisk, 2-hour walk through Central Park. After so many hours in dark rooms, I finally saw the light.
And who knew? Turns out I actually like exercise. And bubbles. I absolutely love a big bubble.
Just not on my butt.