Working Out

For twenty years I have been working out at least twice a week. I actually hate it, even if I see plenty of people I know at the facility. But I love the feeling of self-righteousness when I leave!

With determination, I march directly to a stairmaster machine. There are only two at the YMCA where Charley and I belong. Neither of these machines will acknowledge my presence digitally, because I refuse to "walk" the stair all the way down before "walking" floorward with the next foot. Instead I do quick half-steps, in an attempt to ignore the aloof mechanism. I am penalized by having to clock myself, and by never being able to vary the degree of difficulty.

I like quiet when I go there. I do not want to listen to Stephan the Romanian dispensing stock tips from the treadmill for a discussion with the people on either side of him. I do not want to listen to Tom's tales of romancing the brunette in the sauna, after he got off duty from the weight room the previous evening. I do not want to get involved in Tulia's decision to leave an abusive relationship or to join a church group, where she might meet the love of her life.

I have begun my stepping when a disruption explodes in front of me. A woman has monopolized the treadmill and two other members are waiting. Both of those waiting have signed in and have seen that the woman has been on for forty minutes - a violation by ten minutes!! "How long have you been on there?" the man asks. Perhaps a workout will dissipate his aggression!

"I'll be finished in five minutes."

"You can't be on that long! There's a time limit of thirty on that machine."
The man goes to get the attendant.

Patrick doesn't want to ruffle feathers on his watch. Quietly, he explains to the woman that she will have to relinquish the machine for others who are waiting.

"Then I'll take my business elsewhere!" the woman yells at him. Patrick shrugs his shoulders and retreats to his station. She remains for the last five minutes she came for.

I proceed to a big rubber ball. I choose the red one, smaller than the others, because I believe for some reason, unknown to me, that I will get more benefit from sit-ups on a smaller ball. I place the towel I have brought onto the top and begin twenty-five of these babies, resting before I attempt the next twenty-five. As I begin the second set, I feel the towel and my butt slowly slipping downward. I ignore this, because I just want to finish the damn things! Before I know it, I have landed on the floor with the towel next to me.

I slink off the floor to the area designated for free weights. The YMCA has undergone a transfer in management. The new manager is a young man, clearly intent on attracting members from the body-building set. In tank tops, with tattoos bulging and moving over straining muscles, these young men have taken positions on every bench. I don't want to be anywhere near them as they grunt and heave. I retreat to the far end of the gym, where one small bench remains vacant. I wait to pick up my minimal five-pounds of lead until I get down there.

Once finished with the free weights, I enter the center of the gym. It is here that Jason, our new manager, has redesigned the space so that the weight machines "float" across the center. This gives the illusion of a bigger gym.

The problem is that people sixty and over do not want to be out in the middle of anything. We want to be on machines hugging a wall or in a corner. I climb on the tricept machine and am staring directly into the eyes of a guy twenty years younger, just six feet in front of me. He is running a marathon on his treadmill, while he watches me struggle.

I wipe the machine and figure I'll return to that one later. I proceed to the leg extension machine. The woman who has relinquished it is five feet ten and weighs approximately two hundred pounds. She wears black gloves without fingers and has a bandanna tied around her head. The bandanna is dripping onto the floor. I head for the paper towels and disinfectant spray. Once I've wiped the machine down (attendants usually monitor the wiping), I try to dislodge the metal arm holding a rubber pad. I want it to fit my legs, not hers. It won't budge. She has jammed the arm. I strain until I have deep ridges in my palm. "Damn Amazon!" I seethe, heading for Patrick.

When I finish there, I carefully wipe the machine again. Because Jason was intent on moving everything into the middle of the floor, there is literally one foot between machines. I slide sideways between the leg extension machine and leg curl machine to hang my workout chart from the clipboard on the side. Just as I get sideways, the Amazon heads for the leg curl machine. I decide to head to the mats. I'll start my stretches instead.

The mats are wet. I have my towel, which I can place under me to do the "praying position" stretch. But I hesitate. Is it sweat or is it disinfectant on the mats? I don't take any chances. I spray them and wipe them dry, just in case. I do it again, when I have finished. I was going to clean some kitchen shelves when I get home, but I've done enough wiping. I wash up and head to McDonald's for a frappe!