Height: 5’10”
Weight: 205.2 lbs (oh. my. God.)
Workout: chest, back, legs
Fear
All I have to do is walk 28 steps, ride an elevator down 8 floors, then walk 463 more steps to the gym’s door. It’s a block and a half away and not exactly inconvenient. In fact, I walk by it every day on my way home from work. (This was by design, my thought process being that if it’s so incredibly convenient, then there’s no excuse for not going. We’ve seen, so far, how that’s worked out.)
What’s no less amazing is my ability to busy myself with the “urgent nature” of just about everything else on Earth I can think to take care of. Combine that with my ability to push the limits of workaholism by taking on so many clients in my side business that I crowd out any time for fun and relaxation. Add on top of that a demanding full-time job. And now I’ve built a big, fat ice cream sundae made of ice work cream with hot work fudge, chopped work nuts, and a big work cherry on top. And I eat. It. Up.
I’m so busy gorging myself on my incredibly unhealthy and—I seem to have convinced myself—incredibly tasty hot fudge work sundae that I absolutely will not take the time to consider the question:
Why is it so damn hard to walk in to this place?
Today my journey—like all of them—began with one step. I walked in to the gym. Such a seemingly insignificant series of motions—extend arm, grip door handle, pull door, left foot, right foot, release door handle—took months of mental preparation just to do. That something so simple was so hard for me seems ridiculous when putting “pixels to screen” (to bastardize a phrase). But it was. And I suspect it will be for some time.
The good news is that I made it through the door, through the check-in (a fingerprint scan, how modern), up the stairs, into the locker room and all the way to the weight room floor and nobody made fun of me. Nobody leered. Nobody snickered. The Earth continued to rotate. Daily life moved forward.
And propelled by the musical rants of Green Day, I began my chest, back, and leg workout.
Loathing
I intentionally forced myself into the gym mid-afternoon today so I wouldn’t be faced with the throngs of “happy hour” weight lifters. (You know, “happy hour”, between 6 and 8 p.m. when the gym is busiest with post-work working out.) Not having to deal with crowds right now would make this easier. I imagined it might be an urban housewife or two working out with a trainer. While it was very, very quiet on the weight room floor, the handful of guys that were pumping iron were built and hot.
Cue the intimidation factor.
I persevered.
“These guys had a first day once, too,” I told myself. “Focus on yourself and remember this moment so that one day when you look like one of these fellas, you’ll remember what it was like to just get started.”
Flash forward about 40 minutes: I catch my reflection in the mirror as I’m bent over doing deadlifts and my belly dangles like a cow’s full udder. My jaw drops. My face—no entire head—reddens. I’m mortified. How did this happen??!?
Then it occurs to me: maybe I’m not so afraid of the gym or of the hot muscleheads. I think I’m afraid of how absolutely cruel I will be to myself when I see what I’ve let myself become.
I can only eek out enough focus for two more sets, then my motivation collapses. I can’t believe the reflection staring back at me is me! I gotta get outta there.
Knowing I have to weigh myself today to get my baseline number becomes much more intense after the escapade with Mirror Me on the weight room floor. When I step on the scale, I half expect it to implode like the cartoon scales do with springs and wire flying out of it because it crumbles under the sheer weight of me. Instead it beeps a few times and dispassionately shows me 205.2; five pounds shy of the heaviest I’ve ever weighed.
I’m upset at myself, but motivated to see that number decrease. I hit the showers dejected at where I am, daunted at the task ahead, and pleased that I got a workout done today.
Chinatown
I live in an area of Washington, DC called Chinatown. Ten years ago it was much more Chinatown-ish. Now it’s more like a Disney version of Chinatown. People have compared DC’s Chinatown to New York’s Times Square. Yeah, it’s bustling with people and a handful of jumbotrons spewing the latest ad. But to call compare Chinatown to Times Square is like comparing a 30-foot valley to the Grand Canyon. Close, but no potato.
Chinatown is also home to DC’s Verizon Center, which is where the Capitals, the Wizards, and the Mystics play. Nevermind Britney, AC/DC, Gaga, Ringling Bros., Keith Urban, Cher, and a few other big names. The great thing about Chinatown is that everybody that comes here is in a good mood because they’re excited about either the activity at the Verizon Center or because they’re in “downtown DC.” It’s a great energy.
So…yeah…I live in a pretty cool area of DC. I have a great job. My life is not bad. And, I had a pretty good day today at the gym.
But I still don’t yet have an answer, Why is it so damn hard to walk in to this place?