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.
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