One Wrinkled Butt Away
In a vain attempt to delay the inevitable obesity, disease, and sundry other pleasantries that come with the decaying human body, a buddy and I have been going to the gym a couple of times a week at lunchtime. It’s been about 10 years since I last had a gym membership and -- my oh my -- things have changed.
Where I would normally expect to see long lines of squat racks and leg press machines there are now giant circles of stationary bikes arranged for something called "spin class." Apparently non-moving pedal machines have grown so complex over the last decade so as to require schooling. And, from what I can gather, a required element of this schooling is lots of microphone-aided yelling.
My personal torture of choice, the free weight, has been relegated to steerage and (thanks to the senior center next door) the first class areas are entirely overrun with the elderly, the old, and the really old. Case in point: Next to the tiny weight room is a large, open room with parquet wood flooring, windows, mirrors, etc. The old and the elderly bring plastic steps into this room, set the steps on the floor, then step up, down, and around the steps. Sometimes you'll see them doing this individually, but quite often it's done in the form a "stepping class." Now, I can't tell you how the big drug companies are doing in the realm of Alzheimer's prevention, but I can tell you that I see a lot of old people getting instructions on how to step onto a step, and how to step off a step, and that many of them receive this instruction several times a week.
The tiny weight room does have a certain charm. When we're not smashing each other's feet with the various bells at our disposal (dumbbells, barbells), we free-weighters often exchange cool nods of understanding. Of course, most of us are 30 and over, so the nods say, "Yeah, this used to be cool. We used to be cool. Really cool. Nothing is attached to the weight WE lift. We ARE cool." When the occasional twosome of high school guys wanders in, the nod is one of, "Keep it real man. This is cool, trust me." To which the high schoolers typically nod back, "Quit trying to sound cool, Fattie McOlderson. I will never be you." (I always nod back, quite simply, "We'll see.")
The tiny weight room has speakers mounted in the ceiling, which would be a good thing if only the rec center's annual Muzak budget exceeded 15 cents (US). The only music they play is from 80's bands who never landed a recording contract, but rather, recorded their completely emasculating songs in a basement and, I can only assume, bombarded Muzak Incorporated with stacks of cassette tapes and waivers. It's not uncommon, then, for me to be in the middle of bench-pressing a considerable amount of weight (we're talking triple digits here!) and be confronted with some synthesizer-based ditty about balloons wearing sunglasses. Naturally, my testosterone immediately flees in this situation, and I now have names for the largest of my quite colorful chest contusions.
The ultimate and absolute terror, however, is The Locker Room, which is arranged in a sublimely absurd pattern. Each alcove contains 66 lockers and a single four foot bench. This means that, no matter which alcove you choose, you are guaranteed an up-close-and-personal encounter with a strange, naked old man. Not being Catholic, this is a new experience for me, and it's really becoming a distraction. I find myself re-arranging my entire workday to reduce the odds of my being entirely surrounded by naked old men, only to find my efforts are fruitless because, apparently, old men do not have "work hours," or "lunch hours," or "showers at home."
So, I'm torn. I love working out. I need to work out. But I'm about one wrinkled butt away from either (A) wearing my Umbros and a wife-beater to work to avoid the locker room "experience" or (B) giving up all hope and starting a tab at Carl's Jr.