The number
on my blood results jumped off the page: Total Cholesterol 246. It was the latest
in a series of reality checks that appeared to indicate a decline in overall
health. Other red flags over the last nine months included a 12-pound weight
gain, the energy level of an aging panda, and a tendency to count the extra
steps taken by parking farther from a store as “high-intensity exercise.”
“I have to
start working out again,” I announced to my wife, a bag of potato chips in one
hand, the TV remote in the other.
“Just start
slow and don’t overdo it,” Sherry cautioned. “You’ve been pretty inactive, and you
don’t need to try all the equipment at the gym the first time out.”
When she said the word “gym” I cringed. The
55-plus community we moved to 6 months ago has a perfectly fine fitness center,
but I had been working out at home for 20 plus years. My gym was a spare room
in our house featuring a lat machine, weight bench, dumbbells, and a membership
of one: me.
Working Through
Workout Worries
The idea of
using a gym open to others filled me with angst and unanswered questions.
How can I
learn to use unfamiliar equipment without looking like a newbie?
What’s an
acceptable amount of talking, grunting, flexing or moaning?
What do I
bring? A towel? Two towels? A gym bag? A backpack? A workout log? A log from a
tree for bicep curls?
Should I
hire a personal trainer or be my own trainer barking nonsensical orders at
myself like “blast those lard barrels!” and “squat till you squawk!”
Putting nagging
questions about gym etiquette aside, I decided to follow the lead of writer
Joseph Campbell who said, “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you
seek.”
A Trip To
The Cave… a.k.a. Gym.
As I entered
the fitness center for the first time, I was whisked into a world where sleek,
high-tech equipment stands ready to rejuvenate the tattered, time-beaten bodies
of me and my fellow youth seekers.
Where does
one start? The pec deck? The power rower? The cable crossover station? Let’s
get real. I headed straight for the rack of dumbbells, secure in my knowledge
of how to use these basic muscle building tools.
As I did
some warm-up shoulder presses and hammer curls, I scanned my surroundings to survey
the activities of my gym mates. All three of them. One man sat on a weight
bench recovering from whatever he had just put himself through. Another roamed
the floor, looking like someone in search of motivation… or possibly a
misplaced water bottle. A woman worked out energetically near a mirrored wall,
swinging some light weights and swaying to the sounds of a private playlist embedded
in her musical memory.
The man on
the weight bench walked by on his way out and offered some friendly advice: “Be
careful on the ab machine. It kills your shoulders.”
“Thanks for
the warning,” I replied watching him shuffle away, his drooping shoulders a
pitiful casualty of my gender’s misguided pursuit of six pack abs. To my fellow
man I say forget six pack abs. Ditto buns of steel. Be grateful for the
camouflage of clothes and opportunities to impress others with attributes independent
of the body.
Pumping
Iron, Popping Advil
Emboldened
by my all-access freedom in a nearly empty gym, I headed to the chest press
machine and locked in the weight stack at a level that seemed appropriate. Guess
again, home boy. I could barely budge the weight, and after moving the pin down
another notch, not once, but twice, I became intimately acquainted with the
backsliding price of my recent inertia. I would have to downshift my workout
regimen to Plan B: Cut the Bull and Build Back Slowly. Okay, it’s more like
plan BBB, but that acronym has other frames of reference that I’m not willing
to butt buns of steel with.
For 45
minutes I meandered from machine to machine, reading instructions and trying out
exercises. I did squats, presses and rows. I did pull-ups, curls and dips. I was feeling right at home in this formerly
unfamiliar world, a place where steroid-fueled he-men and narcissistic super
women were noticeably missing in action. But what was also missing in action
was my wife’s commonsense suggestion to take it easy my first time out.
“How’d it
go?” Sherry asked as I came through the door.
“Really good,”
I reported. “But I’m going to need a lot of ibuprofen the next few days.”
“What
happened?”
“Remember
when you said take it slow and don’t overdo it?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, I got
caught up in the moment, went all out and completely overdid it.”
As Sherry
shook her head in disbelief, my mind raced for something to say to redeem
myself.
“At least
I’m not like the guy who killed his shoulders misusing the ab machine,” I
ventured lamely. “Now he can’t lift his arms and his poor wife has to feed him by
hand.”
“You would
lose a lot of weight in that scenario,” Sherry predicted.
My wife. She
would make an excellent personal trainer. I wonder if she’s accepting new
clients?
###
