I'm heading to the gym today. I have nervous belly and I hate the thought of it, but I know I have to try, again. I have always hated the gym. It's probably why the magnet pictured adorns our wine fridge and it makes me smile every time I see it.
I dread the feeling I get when I walk in and I can hear the clanking of weights on bars, and the rythmic sound of feet effortlessly hitting the treadmill. I cringe at the smell of sweat and some kind of industrial cleaner that almost certainly does not fully remove the sweaty person's scent from the machine you're about to attempt. I despise the music that pumps out, meant to fire you up, because it mostly blows.
You know what else bugs me? (I'm fairly negative regarding this whole idea if you haven't noticed). The fit as hell people who need the gym like some of us need books. The are so happy and comfortable there. It's like every visit is a chapter closer to finishing a great book. I guess I don't hate these unassuming gym-goers. I just envy them. I wish I craved exercise the way I crave time alone. I wish I craved movement the way I crave napping with my cats. I wish I craved getting fit the way I crave a new series to get totally lost in.
I guess I have to come to terms with this because I've made the appointment.
Anyway, some of you probably have some kind of healthy balance between your love of literature and the gym and that's great. but for now I think I'll download a good book to listen to while I 'workout' and try and block out the periphery. Maybe it won't be that bad.
If my ego survives this first go, I'll fill you in. For now, though, wish me luck.