the kitchen my parents were positively beaming.
“Do you want me to come so you’re not alone? Maybe you shouldn’t go alone.” My father was becoming more and more worried by the second, as he always did when one of his daughters was anywhere away from the house.
“It’s Saturday morning and I’m going to a gym full of people. I think I’ll be okay.”
My parents didn’t seem too convinced, so my dad proceeded with his over-protective checklist:
“Do you have your cell phone?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How long does it take you to drive there?”
“Six minutes.”
“How long will you be exercising for?”
“Probably an hour.”
“So when will you be back?”
“In an hour and a half.”
“Okay, well call us if you’re running late or we’ll start to worry.” It was the most repeated song on the over-protective soundtrack, and I left with its aggravating chorus ringing loudly in my ears.
***
When I walked into the gym I was hit with a flurry of sounds. The hum of machines whizzing back and forth, the laboured coughs of people on the brink of vomit, and the “pump you up” music of Britney Spears.
As the gym attendant swiped my membership card I slumped my shoulders and frowned.
Who had let a woman man the desk? Thank you “gym,” for wasting this layer of lip-gloss.
My first destination was the locker room, a place I hadn’t been in since the days of high school gym class. I had no intention of doing the naked “shower with your classmates” thing. Not when I was only a six-minute drive from my private shower at home.
Apparently I wasn’t alone in this, as a throng of sweaty women came into the room, grabbed their coats from their respective green lockers, and quickly got the hell out.
As I tried to find a locker for my puffy winter coat, a woman tapped my shoulder from behind.
“Excuse me, do you know how this works?”
I turned to see a late-thirties chick, with frizzy red hair and expensive-looking Lulu Lemon workout gear.
Standing on top of the giant scale to my right, she scratched her head like a baffled chimp.
I’d never been one to deny a chimp in need, so I pressed the button titled “Lbs.”
“Try stepping on it again,” I instructed.
She did, and her weight began to process while I quickly looked away, as I was painfully familiar with the shame of public weigh-ins.
“Thank you,” she said, sounding noticeably disappointed. I guess she wasn’t happy with the number on the scale. Join the club, lady.
At last I made it out to the workout scene, and quickly discovered that the gym wasn’t all that big. There was one main area of machines, surrounded by a burgundy running track.
The track seemed a good place to start, but I stayed in the walking lane, since vomit tended to happen when I ran for any longer than three minutes.
While I walked along briskly I noticed something very intriguing. The guys near the weights were checking out the girls on the track. In fact whenever a hot girl approached the bend, three guys would let each other know, through a system of complicated head nods. Then they’d take turns stretching out their arms to impress her. This was especially enthralling since the men were quite attractive. I felt a sudden urge to join the women’s showcase, but I didn’t really have any sweetness to deliver. At least not from the waist up.
So instead I switched to the elliptical machine.
I programmed the machine to level five. I had no idea if five was a respectable pace, but it was better than one to four.
Before I could develop any sweat beads, the very same woman from the locker room approached me. Her baffled chimp-face was gone, now replaced with a vicious sneer.
“Excuse me, do you have this machine signed out for eleven a.m.?”
I was puzzled. “Signed out?”
“You can’t use machines on Saturday unless you sign them out. This is MY machine.”
Oops.
My face turned red and I felt a little guilty. “Oh, I