WORKING OUT AT A “NORMAL PERSON” GYM

Once I moved to the ‘burbs, I pretty much gave up on outdoor running. First of all, my apartment complex is surrounded by roads with 35 mph speed limits, little to no shoulders, and plenty of squirrel pancakes. Sure I like pancakes, but I’d rather eat one than become one (the Bisquick kind – I’m not THAT weird). Second of all, as part of my rental agreement, I am able to attend a nearby gym for free…lucky me! In other words, they charge me for it monthly whether I decide to go or not. So I go.

Working out at a “normal person” gym has been an adjustment. At college, I got used to being surrounded by people just like me – same age, same T-shirts, same beer bellies. But at “normal person” gym, I feel completely out of place. My fellow gym-goers seem to fall into two categories: fit enough to sell the newest workout DVD on infomercials or large enough to qualify for the next season of The Biggest Loser.

The fit ones wear bright, skin-tight, “look-at-me” outfits and perform exercises I never encountered at my college gym (e.g., walking backwards on treadmills). What’s more, they all seem to know each other, like they’re in some muscle machine cult that gets together once a week to admire their sculpted bodies. (Maybe they don’t really know each other but have spent so much time in the gym they’ve been forced to bond over dumbbells at one time or another…yeah, that’s probably it).

The larger ones always seem to be swimming in oversized tees (which is funny because by the end of their workouts, it often looks like they actually went for a swim). Now I must pause to admit that I don’t have much room to criticize when it comes to over-sweating at the gym. In fact, my mom once told me she thinks I might have hyperhidrosis (a condition involving excessive perspiration), but that’s another story. I actually admire those “not so fit” ones for putting up with muscle machines and their “I’m hot and I know it” gym clothes. Just cover your stomachs, ladies, seriously. The only place I want to see a six-pack is on Brad Pitt or in my fridge.

But anyway, back to me and my awkwardness. So here I am – fresh out of college, not super-fit and not super-fat. I swear, they look at me like I’m a different breed of human. They’re probably thinking, “What is this blond thing with outdated sorority T-shirts, tight calves and love handles?” (The tight calves come from spontaneous speed walking contests – also another story).

When I walk in front of the treadmills to grab a cleaning wipe, I feel eyes searing into the back of my head. (I even dropped my iPod once in a moment of discomfort, calling even more attention to myself…smooth move. Then I hightailed it out of there. I still do.)


Perhaps one day I’ll find my place at the gym. Maybe I'll even be a muscle machine. Ha, or not. I guess for now I'm stuck sticking out. At least my love handles won't!