Unfit Mother

My first job was at a gym. I was sixteen, fresh off the employable vine, living in Memphis, Tennessee. Have you ever walked into a restaurant or a retail store and there is a paper wrapped box sitting on the counter promising a prize? Maybe you are bored waiting so you submit your name into a drawing for a chance to win a free membership to a gym. These slips were collected and dumped onto a table in a windowless room where 10 fresh-faced adolescent belles gathered them by the handful and began dialing the hopeful numbers scrawled across the notes. We congratulated each and every entrant on her 2 free week package to Mademoiselle Spa Lady, the second prize. Next we made an appointment for the lucky winner to come tour the facilities where upon her arrival each was told her free two weeks would be added to the end of a paid membership. Obviously, it was a scam. I became one of the highest commissioning procurers even after my conscious caught up with me and I quit but the scores still trickled in. There was one thing that lingered in my subconscious from that place. It was the smell of the chlorinated Jacuzzi wafting thought the ventilation shaft mingling with the distinct odor of human sweat and accompanied by the reverberating bass notes rattling the drywall. I was hooked on the gym scene.

Even as a sluggish, surly, black-clad teen, I would pedal miles on my bike in my combat boots. I managed to win the president’s physical fitness award in high school even though the sporty image was one I was surely trying to avoid. But I watched the track team with envy; was angry even title nine did not guarantee a girls’ soccer team at my school. I worked out in secret; was a closet jock. And I have been a card-carrying gym member every year of my adult life. Except for the last year and a half.

When we bought a new house in July of 2006, our family had to reallocate every penny of the budget to make the West Coast real estate market work in our favor. One of the first items on the chopping block: my gym membership. I tried to exercise at home – I went for walks, calculated household chores into calorie burning equivalents and thought about running. But despite my best laid plans I became flabby. With folds of skin pooling on top of each other in soft mounds, I gradually lost muscle tone. I spend my days in a puddle at the computer and at night dreamed of accumulating digitized hours on a treadmill in a musty room pumping house music. I did not realize how depressed I was becoming. Delving deeper into a dark tunnel of melancholy while my eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

Soon my clothes seemed tighter and even though I weighed about the same, my body changed and betrayed me. I became self-conscious and began wearing the same oversized sweat pants and baggy shirts until I morphed into a ridiculous parody of the frumpy housewife. A role I did not realize I was playing and yet fit the part perfectly. Somewhere inside this method actor haus frau, Gym Girl slept waiting for the kiss of a bar coded membership card to a full amenity exercise palace.

After I tacked the new 2008 calendar to the wall, I decided to make the change. I felt like one of those enthusiastic new years resolutioners when I walked into the 24-hour fitness office Friday morning. The West Coast heavy oligopoly is building a facility only two blocks from my house in the new Vanport Square development. When I read about it in my neighborhood rag I was excited beyond relief. A full Magic Johnson Super-Sport building is coming! But when? The block has been demolished, but the hard ground is unbroken. I decided I could wait no longer. Our finances have adjusted to the new mortgage and I reclaimed a line item for this necessity. Taking advantage of my nanny time, I made my way to the further location. The young car sales type recruiter had an easy mark; I was not a hard sell. Show me the machines and sign me up! I was practically in tears when I saw the saline Jacuzzi and both a wet and a dry sauna. My heart was pounding for a long lost love.

I returned a few hours later donned in my work out regalia, albeit a little more snug than usual and impacted further by the predictable holiday ten. I took my place among the rows of treadmills and began my routine. Tentatively at first, I began sneaking peeks at my co-workers out. I was not the pudgiest and I began gaining confidence. No one was staring at my accumulated bulk. All fingers were busy selecting target heart rates, calorie counts and volume settings; none were pointed at me fronting gales of giggles. By the time I made the rounds on the machines I was back in my element. The body has a memory and neglected muscle groups were perking up, singing. I was so impressed with the amenities of the gym that I did not think about the throngs of tank-topped muscle-heads. I was intimidated until I realized that there were so many people here, even on Friday night, I was anonymous. They looked like ants milling about a mound with a mission. There were the worker ants, the soldier ants and the soft-bellied queens. No one noticed me or if they did, I did not care. I was back in my house of worship; my religion is in the gym.

Comments

[Unfit Mother]

Nylonthread, I wish as teens we could have been more empowered to blur those social lines. To be the punk jocks, the goth cheerleaders or the heavy metal prom queen. I hope you join your gym and feel as fantastic I have in the last week!

MT, I would love to have my own high powered machine -o'-exercise in my home, but there is something more exciting to me about gym culture and belonging to it.

[nylonthread]

UM, I'm so glad you wrote this post! It actually answered some questions for me, too. Like you, my first job at 16 was at a gym -- I was a lifeguard at a YMCA (despite having blue-white skin and a mohawk-style do). And despite being rabidly anti-jock, I was in my family's cycling club, studied dance, and stayed pretty fit. During college, I just didn't eat and walked everywhere.

When a coworker introduced me to a gym at my first job out of college, I started taking aerobics 3x/week and sometimes 2 classes back-to-back. LOVED MY GYM!! But, same thing with us, the gym fee got excised in our 4-person household 2.5 years ago, and I've been feeling quite doughy.

I'm at a new office now with a basement gym that's not too pricey -- I think you've inspired me to join. Thanks, UM!

[mamatried]

I love this one machine called the Cybex so much (cross between a stair stepper and elliptical) that I once priced them ($5K for a 'home' version) and tried to rationalize the purchase despite my school teacher income. Rational thinking won out.

I wish I could go to the gym with you. I need some of your drive and motivation to flow my way..

[Unfit Mother]

Thanks, Marjorie! There's no better feeling that a soak in a hot tub after pounding the treadmill. Heaven...

[Marjorie]

Wow--great post. I was hanging on every word, and hoping that was just how it would turn out. I'm happy for you.