Today call me pumped because I’ve finally joined a gym. Although I waited almost 42 years, I’ve not only secured myself an official membership at Stevenson Fitness (Your community. Your gym) but I have visited said gym three times which means, as of this morning, I’m practically a regular. I’m not claiming it’s “Cheers” or that “everyone knows my name” or anything. First, they don’t serve alcohol; and second, I haven’t seen a suggestion box where I could submit “serve alcohol” as an idea for improvement. Other than this oversight however, the place is basically perfect.
Prior to signing up at the supremely friendly, non-alcoholic Stevenson Fitness, I’d enjoyed a single gym experience as a guest of a member at the Spectrum Club. I proved to be so mightily uncoordinated, the kickboxing instructor taught the entire class in front of me, backwards, mirroring my movements because I could not figure out how to approximate the punches and lunges she was producing with her limbs. A miracle of strength and agility, she was forced to abandon her platform and venture to the back of the room where I floundered miserably for 55 minutes and never did “get the hang of it” as she’d promised. Needless to say, the people at the front desk did not beg me to join as I exited their establishment. They had plenty of other ambulatory members who could lunge and punch correctly without embarrassing the instructors.
Five years later, I was reluctant to join Stevenson Fitness; but since I’ve landed “in my forties,” I’ve decided to give up on feeling shame. My new philosophy: If you’re not mortified, you’re not trying hard enough. To that end, allow me to confess my latest wardrobe malfunction that joins a long list of previous transgressions about which some of you are aware. I have, in the past, gone running with my shorts on backward a total of three times. I’ve also worn my tank tops inside out more than once. And yes, I ran fourteen miles in compression pants so threadbare, you could see my butt through the overtaxed spandex, a fact I did not realize until after I’d returned home.
But, unfortunate as those mishaps may have been, they were unintentional. Unlike this week when I attended Stevenson Fitness in capris sporting a hole in the lower hip that I knowingly patched with a piece of black dress sock I’d cut from one of Bill’s many mismatched pairs and taped to the inside of my pants. In retrospect, I probably would have achieved better results by coloring my hip skin with black Sharpie since the material around the tape puckered a bit and the sock protruded from the hole when submitted to friction. Either way, I’m fairly certain the front desk at the Spectrum Club would have spotted my transgression and requested my immediate departure. But not the good people at Stevenson Fitness. It’s My gym. My community. And I am, after all, a regular.
In fact, my new gym gets better each day. This morning, climbing onto the treadmill, I discovered I could watch TV during my workout. Who knew? For 45 blissful minutes, I combined two of my favorite but previously separate activities: running and watching television (do not closely examine the order.) I swear if someone had hopped on the adjacent treadmill to spoon-feed me fettuccine alfredo, I might’ve mistaken Stevenson Fitness for Heaven, whether or not everyone knows my name.
So if “serve pasta” ever appears in the Stevenson Fitness suggestion box, you’ll all know whom to thank.
And you’re welcome, friends. You’re welcome.
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