In the Land of Endless Treadmills and Bagels: An Adventure to Planet Fitness

This morning, I shuffle into the gym with roughly the energy level of a three-toed sloth. On my way in, a couple that meets the stereotype of my small town push by me: overweight, camo jackets, general standoffish attitude, him carrying keys to a lifted F350, her wearing trashed knockoff Uggs. Yes. I've arrived.

Inside, the girls at the counter are cheerful and kind, and one guy tells me about some ridiculous promotion they're having, while I pretend to listen. I'm eyeing the tanning bed signup sheet, before it gets too full and I have to wait. I do not like to wait. 

Shortly after, I make my way back to the locker room, where there's a white trash mom convention going on. 

I quietly put on my shoes, which are very, very clean- I never wear them outside- and eavesdrop on the conversation. They discuss Midwestern cuisine.

"Karen, how did you like that recipe for tater-tot hotdish I sent you?"

"Oh, the kids absolutely loved it!"

Apropos of nothing, the conversation switches to the allegations that Ted Cruz is the elusive Zodiac Killer.

I scoot out of there before they start singing the praises of Donald Trump, which I know at this point, by their rhinestone-appliquéd jeans, stacked-angled bobs, and backwoods Michigan accent, is inevitable. 

Today, I am going to continue with my typical routine of 3-4 different types of cardio. This is not because I think strength training is useless to me- I just don't know how. In high school sports practices, I spent more time lying on the floor in the weight room and talking shit with whoever was the second-laziest person there or crying on the leg press than actually lifting. Consequently, I never learned. 

I only know how to run, which at one point for me was as easy as breathing, and bike for hours at a time, usually drunk. I'm not allowed to drink in this gym, though. 

I chose this gym because of its price and its many extra perks. I like it so far, but some things about its business model make me nervous. Its purple and yellow prestige and "non-judgmental" atmosphere are well-known, as well as some of its other weekly offerings..

Their efforts to welcome patrons extends to specially designated evenings and some mornings every week where they present a lavish spread of the two foods most conducive to weight loss: pizza and bagels. 

I know this because I the first day I came in was Bagel Tuesday. 

Hopping up on the treadmill, I begin the process of a warmup. As said before, my previous attempts at gym exploits were limited strictly to cardio, but today- today's different. Today I'm about that strength training life.

I enjoy a relatively uneventful fifteen minute run, glancing over frequently at the weights area. "Gymtimidation," that's how this place refers to the feeling I now have studying the P90X bros over there. 

My frequent side-eye attracts the attention of the dude on a the machine next to me. He raises his eyebrows at me. Oh god. Please don't talk to me. I don't care. I'm not looking at you, you crusty beard bear. 

"Hey," he says to me. 

I give him what I realize is an extremely incredulous look, and smack the STOP button on the treadmill. I stick my iPhone in my bra and stomp over to the weight corral. 

The bro population has dwindled to only about three or four, and they are all doing some seriously heavy lifting and making noises that I think they would find incredibly embarrassing if they didn't have their headphones in. I don't think they've noticed me. I won't wake them.

I stare at the free weight rack. I gingerly pick up one dumbbell that's not too heavy (it's definitely not in the double-digit range, I'll say that much), with the care and respect that one might have for a pump-action shotgun. I'd feel more comfortable holding one of those, to be honest- at least I'm confident in my ability to shoot. I don't know what the hell to do with this heavy neoprene contraption.

Although I did plenty of research before deciding to start lifting, at the moment I can't remember anything I learned. I look at the list of exercises I wrote on my phone, and try to remember what a military curl and press looks like. 

I make it through a few sets of different attempts at exercises, facing the mirrored wall. The fluorescent lights make me look even whiter than I am, although I do look skinnier than I thought I was. 

Any positive sentiment I could have gleaned from that observation dissipates as I understand I am the equivalent to the scrawny nerd in gym class, next to all these giant beef trees. 

Fortunately, no one talks to me, and when I'm finished and my limbs feel like Jello I make my way back to the stationary bikes. I'm happy here. 

The girl next to me is texting and biking like she's pedaling through molasses. I ignore her, and watch primary coverage on the flat-screens above me, but soon my interest is diverted to the elderly couple on the weight machines in front of me. 

The man looks like he's about 80 years old, with a full white beard.

Fuck. If he can come in here and get ripped, there's no reason for me to be so scared of the gym. 

My thoughts are interrupted by a crunch to my left. 

No. This can't be happening. I only saw this in online reviews. I didn't think I ever would in real life. 

The girl next to me, who previously was texting, is now eating chips out of a small bag. I look away quickly- I don't want her to attack me for judging in a gymtimidation-free zone. 

I finish my sober bike ride about twenty minutes later, and return to the treadmill, where I will walk for a bit and get my heart rate back down to something that's not going to terrify me. I head back to the black card members area, where I hear a man who looks somewhat homeless in dirty jeans talking to himself (or singing?) in the hydromassage room. I think I'll skip that room today.

My solace comes within the ultraviolet columns of the Hex tanning booth. 

I used to tan often when I was younger. I really enjoyed looking like a normal human instead of one of those translucent white creatures that live in deep, underwater caves, but my favorite part of this activity was how incredible I felt afterwards.

There's something meditational about tanning in the Hex- standing in a cylinder surrounded by warm blue light, white fan noise and ambient music, closing my eyes and breathing deeply always made me feel at least ten times better than I did when I walked in.

I tend to equate tanning to a religious experience, as I do with many other perfect things in life: 24 hour diners, the high after running, the smell of a forest in Northern Michigan, singing in my car. 

Today, I stand in the Hex and practice long yoga breaths, feeling my heart return to normal. 

I like the gym. I think I will keep coming here, and work on making myself healthy again, amongst the throngs of beefy bros with their strange animal noises and indoor snapbacks, and pudgy cheerful pizza-gobblers, toddling along on the treadmills and dreaming of the tater-tot hotdish and Faygo Red Pop they will inevitably return to when they go home. 

Tonight, I will dream of the smell of yoga mats, girls in horrifically flesh-toned leggings, counting macros, and rows of ellipticals that go on forever. The audio memory of the beef bros' muffled trap music on their Dre beats will lull me to sleep, and I will wake tomorrow, to witness it all again.

Emergency Room Blues: A Personal Narrative

It's one a.m. and I'm driving to the hospital. Actually, I'm casing the place. Driving down Lyon, Bostwick, up Michigan Street, my car almost sliding backwards down the icy hill, again and again, around the block, because I've never been to a hospital in the city and I don't know where to find parking.

There's a drive that goes straight to the entrance to the ER with a valet service, should I just go there? I don't know, I don't think that I'm sick enough to deserve valet service. I feel the squeezing, sharp pain in my side, under my ribs, pangs going up my esophagus. No, I should probably be here.

Fifteen minutes ago I started feeling these awful pains and began to dissociate, I began to panic, I live alone, how far is an ambulance, what if I die here. It's nighttime, everyone's asleep. I'll die alone. I pulled on my boots and galloped down the stairs to my car. I could've called someone, I usually do, but I didn't want anyone to wake up. I don't want them to know that I'm going crazy again.

My left lung feels like it's in a vice grip.

Now, I decide to park on the side street with no name, half a block down from the hospital. I pull my hood over my head and shove my hands into my pockets. The only thing I can hear is the icy wind, freezing my ear drums. I walk past an EMT standing outside an ambulance, smoking. Inside, I'm greeted by more medical professionals.

"Do you have chest pains or any trouble breathing?"

Lucky me, I have both. The single useful part of having a heart condition is you will typically be admitted before anyone else. I surrender my ID and insurance cards.

"Maria? Is that how you say your name?" asks the male nurse at the computer.

"Yeah.."

"And...Katharine?" Oh my god.

"Yep."

"Very nice. That's pretty."

I immediately sneeze; long ropy tendrils of mucus. Gorgeous.

A girl nurse carts me down the hall in a wheelchair, and I keep glancing at the floor. Whenever I look up, people always seem to be staring. I can't figure out why. Maybe it's because I'm not bleeding from the ears, or missing an appendage.

I am delivered to an exam room that has not only a curtain, but its own door. I am not out in the pit, with the rest of the peasants. There is a television here too, like usual, but I don't like to use them. I prefer to pickle in my anxiety.

I take off my coat and shirt and shoes and pull the hospital gown around me. It isn't a triple extra-large this time, which is nice.

The nurse, who looks like Julianne Hough, comes back to hook me up to the heart monitor. "Have you ever had one of these before?"

At least a hundred. I'm shivering, nervous. My hands are trembling, and I'm so aware of the ripping pain in my chest.

Shortly after, my doctor arrives. He's hot. Everyone in this hospital is hot. Well, at least I'm still in full makeup and my hair looks flawless. I'm not going to try to flirt though. I'm wearing a hospital gown, it'll be completely futile.

"Hello Maria, I'm Doctor [some sort of French surname; I immediately peg him as a Canadian]." Perfect. "What brings you here tonight?"

I tell him about the pain, how I can't breathe, how it feels like my ribs are on fire, etc etc. Oh, and I had pains in my legs all day.

"About how long ago did the pain start?" Oh christ. The way he pronounces "about" confirms my suspicions.

I hold back a laugh and tell him the chest pains started about an hour ago. But the leg pains, since I woke up, actually. I'm concerned about blood clots. You know, since I'm on contraception. I don't want to sound like a hypochondriac. Is that what a hypochondriac would say?

The Canadian Doctor nods, and looks up at me. "Yeah, I thought blood clots might be a possibility, actually, when I looked at your chart."

Ha-HA! Knew it. I could be a doctor.

"Well, we'll hook you up to an IV, and we'll get a chest X-ray, do some blood work, rule out the more serious stuff."

My stomach drops when I hear about IVs and needles. Fuck, they're serious. I honestly thought an X-ray would be it, and then I'd get sent off. I hate this. Why did I come here? The pain in my chest is fading, but my heart starts racing instead. I need an Ativan.

The Canadian Doctor does an examination, and comments on the rash that's spread from my chest to my shoulders. Goddammit. "Is that typical for you?"

"Oh, no, it's not. I mean, it usually just happens when I get anxious." It's true. I'm an excellent liar, but the rash is always a dead giveaway. This was unfortunate in high school around people I had a crush on.

He looks at me. "Hey. It's okay. You don't have to be anxious. We'll take good care of you."

Oh. Oh. He thinks I'm anxious because I'm in a hospital and I am, ostensibly, suffering a pulmonary embolism. He has no inkling that I'm nervous because I've already married him in my head and named our future children.

The Canadian Doctor leaves and another male nurse comes in to stick a needle into my arm. He's also extremely attractive. Why? And they all look pretty young. It must be a teaching hospital. I wonder what residents do in their spare time, if they have any. Do they drink often? Come to think of it, I think I might've seen Nurse Julianne Hough at Pyramid Scheme the other night.

The male nurse sucks some blood out of my veins, tapes the IV into my arm, and tells me the test results should be back soon. The X-ray technician arrives, and hauls my boat of a bed down the hall to radiology. I sit cross-legged on the bed while he pushes it down the hall, looking ridiculous in my gown, leggings and bright pink socks. The technician takes some pictures of whatever's inside my chest, and we return to my suite.

I lean back and stare at the ceiling. They left one of the lights off, so it's quite dim in here. My chest pain has dissipated for now, and I feel that heavy, depressing feeling return, when I realize that maybe the reason I'm in here again is nothing at all.

I started graduate school three weeks ago, and the stress is already getting to me. I live alone, in a new city, somewhere unfamiliar. I feel fear rather often, sometimes to the point I can't even leave my house. Making it to class is hard enough. Trying to focus on the tedious, tiresome readings is hard enough. Participating in class discussions? Nearly impossible. I have to take anxiety medication before I exit the parking deck, so when I make it into the lecture hall, to my seat, I've glided into some sort of calm. Even then, it's still a struggle. I've always been a nervous person, but a few years ago, things just got so much harder.

I think about this, and I think about the number of times I've been in this situation, terrified, pains shooting through my chest, ribs, jaw, down my arm. I'm short of breath, my heart races and skips, and I'm dizzy. Who wouldn't think it was heart attack? If you've never had a panic attack, it's hard to imagine what it's like. You feel that you may die. Since my diagnosis of an arrhythmia, it's been worse. With everything I've been through, I never want to take a chance.

That's why I'm here tonight. Because it feels real, and I don't know what to do. This pain is different, though, it's sharp, like someone's slicing between my ribs with a knife. Immediately, I assumed there was a blood clot in my lungs, or that I had ebola, or something equally tragic. Plus, you know, the heart attack. If it exists, I have it.

Now, I crane my head back to see the readings from the cardiac monitor on the screen. My blood pressure is low, as usual, from the beta blockers.

My pulse is elevated. I watch the number, and try to lower it. I breathe deeper, in and out. 72...again, in and out. 69. Again, and again. 65. When I reach fifteen breaths, it's down to 62, where it stays. I am ready for sleep.

I hear a knock on the door. A tall, graying man in the white coat comes in, The Canadian Doctor trailing behind him.

"Hello, I'm Doctor [some sort of Polish monstrosity, I'll call him Doctor Pulaski], I'm one of the supervising physicians here. Just wanted to let you know your x-ray came back fine, but we're still waiting on the blood test results, which will tell us for certain if you're experiencing a pulmonary embolism."

"Oh."

"Now, that is probably not be the cause of your pain, but with the symptoms you described, my associate here was concerned that that may be the case," says Doctor Pulaski.

He also tells me I might have a collapsed lung, which causes me to snort in nervous and terrified laughter. Doctor Pulaski is very kind, though, and reassuring. I like this hospital. I hate that I'm probably wasting their time.

I've been to the ER so many times, and most of the time, it's nothing. But it's always the few cases there has been something really, really wrong that leaves me skittish. Sometimes I think if my heart was healthy, I would be fine. If I'm being honest with myself, I know I'd just find something new to worry about anyway.

They leave me alone in my room again, and I continue to ponder my existential struggles. I take a few selfies.

About an hour later, The Canadian Doctor returns, mid-selfie. "How are you feeling?"

I lower my iPhone in shame. He suppresses a grin. I am too basic for The Canadian Doctor; he will never love me the way I love him.

"Fine, I guess."

"Your blood tests came back fine. No blood clot, nothing that would indicate a heart attack either. You can rest assured that's out of the question."

I sigh. "Oh, good. I thought I was going to die."

He smiles at me. "Well, you're not going to die tonight."

"What about the pain? What's causing it?"

"It could be anything, indigestion, something you ate. Could be stress. You're probably feeling physical symptoms of anxiety." Of course I am.

Indigestion sounds likely, though. But does this imply that I can never eat buffalo sauce again? For the first time, I feel a profound loss.

"I was so worried it was something worse."

"Well, you can relax." He is being so nice, so understanding, and I hate it. I don't understand why no one is furious with me. If this is nothing, I feel guilty for being here. I hate myself, and I hate my habit of emergency room visits for sport. Am I malingering? Is this what malingering is?

"We'll send you off with some peace of mind tonight, you can go home, get some sleep. And if any symptoms get worse, or if you're scared something might be wrong again, feel free to come back in, okay?"

Why doesn't he tell me to fuck off? I have Munchausen syndrome, or, more likely, paranoid personality disorder.

"We'll get you through registration, you can be discharged, and we'll send you home in a few minutes here."

The Canadian Doctor opens the door to leave, but turns back to look at me. "Have a good night, Maria," he says, smiling, "It was a pleasure treating you."

Hah. I'm so sure.

I leave soon after, with some printouts on chest pains and anxiety, and a clean bill of health. I'm relieved I'm not dying, but I'm so tired. It's around three thirty in the morning, and the receptionists smile at me as I leave. Is everyone here Canadian? They're crushingly polite.

Outside, the wind has died down. The air is cold and crisp, and slips through my lungs like silver. In the dark, the city lights are clear, and everything seems sharp. I like walking around at night, even if it's winter.

I pass another ambulance parked outside, two men inside it, eating cheeseburgers and laughing. It's just a typical night for them. I think about the people in the buildings around me, working much different hours than everyone else. Hospitals never close. A couple cars drive down Lyon, and I hear bass thumping in the distance. I can smell the McDonald's further down Michigan Street, and I think it's strange that it's right next door to all the medical establishments.

I understand immediately that I am not alone in the world, in this moment. This is the safest I've felt in weeks. I'm often afraid at night, feeling like everyone in the world is asleep but me. I like the early hours, but they're better when you have someone to enjoy them with. I'm scared of crowds, but I need to know that there's people around. I want to know that somewhere, someone else is awake. Tonight, I feel it.

In my car, I crank the heat up high, and turn on the radio. On the rap station, the DJs are making corny jokes about celebrities in the news. They sound like they're having a good time. I think I would like a job where I could stay up all night and talk shit.

I put my car in gear, and head down the road, passing the hospitals, and back down the hill. Before turning onto my street, I spot the 24 hour Grand Coney on the corner of Eastern and Michigan. It looks inviting, so I decide to pull in. I imagine a cup of warm decaf coffee in my hands, and an order of hash browns sizzling away on the flat top.

My heartbeat is steady, and the tension in my stomach is gone. I feel at home in the world, and I'm not afraid to be awake. I think it will be fine, tonight.