Pump it Up

Well, I've finally done it. The unthinkable. I joined a gym.

I've always had a hatred of gyms: the sweating, the sidelong glances, the tank tops, the men admiring their own muscles in the mirror as they grunt, shiny cross trainers, bad music, spandex, and . . . . .  . . . smells. 

But I've also been getting sad for no reason (the reason being winter and all its long nights and short days), and a little doughy. I can usually combat this with bike rides and occasional bouts of calisthenics in my living room, but I decided it was time to call in reinforcements.

I joined the Lloyd Athletic Club. It's awesome. They give you a towel when you walk in and the machines are never crowded and there's a hot tub and a steam room in the ladies locker room and you don't have to be 45 minutes early to get into a class. I took a yoga class the other night and I was one of five people. The only downfall to a class with five people is that when you are standing in some sort of groin-stretching position with your head hanging down and you suddenly get lightheaded and then you are rolling around on the floor like you slipped in a mud-wrestling pit and can't get up because you actually fainted (I actually fainted!), the instructor stops and asks if you're okay and everyone looks at you. Which is good I guess, because it means you won't die in yoga class without being noticed. There are lots of old, old men using the weight machines, and many people sit in the lounge when they are done and have a beer in the front of the fire place so you can walk through the lounge and it smells like hops. Basically, I'm really excited about this whole gym thing. Which may be kind of sad in the grand scheme of things, but surely getting in shape can't be considered sad even if it takes place at a gym. However, just punch me if I start asking you to feel my muscles. That's when you know a line has been crossed.