lessons on smoothness, by emmy gladney
one of the things that i like best about the 24HourFitness in the financial district is that i'm far less likely to run into anyone that i know there. this is a good thing for a couple of reasons.
1. my workout clothes are highly unflattering. they're either the hideous, stained clothes that i don't wear on a day-to-day basis and thus are appropriated by the gym clothes pile, OR even better- they're the store bought work-out clothes that make me feel (and more importantly, LOOK) like a sausage. ann and i affectionately call these quick-dry, non-chafing, lycra-blend clothes my "sausage clothes."
2. i am out of shape. mind you, this doesn't affect my body image so much. i make this statement not because of a low self-esteem, but instead to remark upon the 10lbs dumbells with which i complete bicept curls. i'm talking WEAKLING people.
3. i make really horrible, unattractive, hideous faces when i am lifting. after 30 minutes of cardio, when i hop onto those arm, leg, ab, and back machines, i am in no state of cuteness. no, i am red -- like candied apple red -- and wet. and then i go and lift pathetic amounts of weight and make just HORRID faces. i'm there to get shit done, not impress anyone.
and i guess i "get shit done" best when i have my chin tucked into my neck, giving me that triple-chinned, turkey-neck kind of look. and i'm breathing all weird. sometimes i puff air into my cheeks, and squint, and move my eyebrows all weird, and scowl, and purse my lips. and sometimes i gasp, or huff, or whine. its really quite awful. its not like sex faces. or the weirdly sex-like faces i make while being tattooed. or the pained face i make when i've been injured or recently pierced. no. this is special and ugly, and utterly unforgivable. work out faces. the faces.
yesterday, after completing my crunches on the ab machine, i moved onto the final 3 sets of 10 reps on the machine that *is* my arch-gym-nemesis: the delt machine. i suck at delt lifts, and this machine was created by a sadistic son-of-a-bitch who gets off on pain AND humiliation. no, it is not enough that you have to straddle the fucker, but you do it with your ass tilted up to the world, while you face into a wall of machinery and pulleys. and did i meantion that i am really weak, so i have to climb on and off and walk around to reduce the weight each time i realize that "no, i didn't lower it enough last time i got up to adjust it." and then i walk back and swing my leg up and over the seat like i'm a pathetic excuse for an urban (or "urbane") cowgirl.
and then, i make the faces. for 3 sets of 10 reps doing something that hurts, and is hard, and i SUCK at... i make the faces.
but then it's over. after the third "ten" that i utter under shakey breath, i return the weights to their resting position and then i'm done. i could sing, i am so happy at this point, but yesterday i decided not to sing, cuz i was already feeling stupid about how red, weak, and silly i look.
attempting to get off this machine at the end of an hour work-out is uncomfortable for a multitude of reasons.
A. after sitting through 30 reps, i am usually stuck to the pleather seat in some fashion. generally by that bizarre glue-like solution that sweat seems to form when in contact with fake leather. this is only, of course exaserbated by my tendancy to clutch the machine with my whole body while attempting to lift 15lbs.
B. at the end of an hour at 24HourFitness, i am tired and swinging my heavy, tired legs up and over the high, ass-tilted machine is very difficult.
C. last night i was wearing the jersey basketball shorts that i stole from Ann. the crotch is quite long, and of course snagged on the edge of seat, nearly sending me careening into the nice young man doing reps on the peck press next to me. (why is it always nice young men working out on the peck deck at 6:00pm on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays?)
i did manage, however, on this particular dismount to maintain possession of my ipod and my dignity. the headphone cord did not become tangled in the handles of the machine, ripping the pods from my ears as it usually does.
small victories.
and then i looked up. i try to avoid eye contact with most people at the gym. i'll confess, sometimes if there's a cute dyke, we'll do the whole, "hey you're a cute dyke too" eye contact and slight (always understated, stealth-style) smirk. but no such luck today. i looked right up and into the smiling gaze of that good-looking, ex-naval officer or marine or something, chico-state-like, male teller from the bank where my employer has the company checking account. as accounts payable/receivable, i travel over to the bank each day to make deposits on behalf of my employer, and--since moving back to our financial district location--i'd befriended this former military guy who plays teller for me when i drop by. and i'll admit, i have a tiny boy-crush on him. yes, ladies and gents, mr. cute-guy-boy-crush was smiling at me from the stationary bicycles down by the large floor fan.
mortified at being recognized and caught making faces and falling off machines, i meekly raised a hand in something that was meant to act as a friendly wave. he nodded in acknowledgement, and i smiled and turned to walk [at a rapid pace] to the lockerroom. at least i could justify it, in that it was actually the end of my work out, but we both knew he'd seen *the faces* and i'm only glad that at least we have a relationship where we both act like reformed frat boys that belonged to the same house. unfortunately, i looked like a basketball-shorts-wearing-sausage painted red making AWFUL faces at the moment.
having reached the switzerland neutral territory of the lockerroom, i looked up from the floor right into my reflection. my first thought? "OHMYGOD, what's wrong with my face?" i'm not talking about the faces here people. i am talking about my actual face. at first, i thought, "maybe this is just the terrible overhead flourecent gym lighting making my pores look HUGE."
and then i thought, "maybe this is just a boold sugar low fucking with my vision. maybe i'm about to faint."
and when i didn't faint, and instead took unsteady steps toward the huge mirror (WHO PUTS THESE HUGE MIRRORS IN WOMENS LOCKERROOMS AT GYMS?), it appeared that i huge pock-mark-like scars all over my cheek. only, i didn't suffer from severe adolecent acne or any facial burns.
upon closer inspection, it was backwards letters and lines. yes, while doing my crunches before moving to the delt machine, i rested my face on my crossed arms and the sweat transferred my To Do List from where it was sharpied on the back of my left hand to its new, backwards location on my face. like silly putty on a newspaper. candied-apple red, sweaty face, silly putty.
priceless. fucking priceless.
1. my workout clothes are highly unflattering. they're either the hideous, stained clothes that i don't wear on a day-to-day basis and thus are appropriated by the gym clothes pile, OR even better- they're the store bought work-out clothes that make me feel (and more importantly, LOOK) like a sausage. ann and i affectionately call these quick-dry, non-chafing, lycra-blend clothes my "sausage clothes."
2. i am out of shape. mind you, this doesn't affect my body image so much. i make this statement not because of a low self-esteem, but instead to remark upon the 10lbs dumbells with which i complete bicept curls. i'm talking WEAKLING people.
3. i make really horrible, unattractive, hideous faces when i am lifting. after 30 minutes of cardio, when i hop onto those arm, leg, ab, and back machines, i am in no state of cuteness. no, i am red -- like candied apple red -- and wet. and then i go and lift pathetic amounts of weight and make just HORRID faces. i'm there to get shit done, not impress anyone.
and i guess i "get shit done" best when i have my chin tucked into my neck, giving me that triple-chinned, turkey-neck kind of look. and i'm breathing all weird. sometimes i puff air into my cheeks, and squint, and move my eyebrows all weird, and scowl, and purse my lips. and sometimes i gasp, or huff, or whine. its really quite awful. its not like sex faces. or the weirdly sex-like faces i make while being tattooed. or the pained face i make when i've been injured or recently pierced. no. this is special and ugly, and utterly unforgivable. work out faces. the faces.
yesterday, after completing my crunches on the ab machine, i moved onto the final 3 sets of 10 reps on the machine that *is* my arch-gym-nemesis: the delt machine. i suck at delt lifts, and this machine was created by a sadistic son-of-a-bitch who gets off on pain AND humiliation. no, it is not enough that you have to straddle the fucker, but you do it with your ass tilted up to the world, while you face into a wall of machinery and pulleys. and did i meantion that i am really weak, so i have to climb on and off and walk around to reduce the weight each time i realize that "no, i didn't lower it enough last time i got up to adjust it." and then i walk back and swing my leg up and over the seat like i'm a pathetic excuse for an urban (or "urbane") cowgirl.
and then, i make the faces. for 3 sets of 10 reps doing something that hurts, and is hard, and i SUCK at... i make the faces.
but then it's over. after the third "ten" that i utter under shakey breath, i return the weights to their resting position and then i'm done. i could sing, i am so happy at this point, but yesterday i decided not to sing, cuz i was already feeling stupid about how red, weak, and silly i look.
attempting to get off this machine at the end of an hour work-out is uncomfortable for a multitude of reasons.
A. after sitting through 30 reps, i am usually stuck to the pleather seat in some fashion. generally by that bizarre glue-like solution that sweat seems to form when in contact with fake leather. this is only, of course exaserbated by my tendancy to clutch the machine with my whole body while attempting to lift 15lbs.
B. at the end of an hour at 24HourFitness, i am tired and swinging my heavy, tired legs up and over the high, ass-tilted machine is very difficult.
C. last night i was wearing the jersey basketball shorts that i stole from Ann. the crotch is quite long, and of course snagged on the edge of seat, nearly sending me careening into the nice young man doing reps on the peck press next to me. (why is it always nice young men working out on the peck deck at 6:00pm on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays?)
i did manage, however, on this particular dismount to maintain possession of my ipod and my dignity. the headphone cord did not become tangled in the handles of the machine, ripping the pods from my ears as it usually does.
small victories.
and then i looked up. i try to avoid eye contact with most people at the gym. i'll confess, sometimes if there's a cute dyke, we'll do the whole, "hey you're a cute dyke too" eye contact and slight (always understated, stealth-style) smirk. but no such luck today. i looked right up and into the smiling gaze of that good-looking, ex-naval officer or marine or something, chico-state-like, male teller from the bank where my employer has the company checking account. as accounts payable/receivable, i travel over to the bank each day to make deposits on behalf of my employer, and--since moving back to our financial district location--i'd befriended this former military guy who plays teller for me when i drop by. and i'll admit, i have a tiny boy-crush on him. yes, ladies and gents, mr. cute-guy-boy-crush was smiling at me from the stationary bicycles down by the large floor fan.
mortified at being recognized and caught making faces and falling off machines, i meekly raised a hand in something that was meant to act as a friendly wave. he nodded in acknowledgement, and i smiled and turned to walk [at a rapid pace] to the lockerroom. at least i could justify it, in that it was actually the end of my work out, but we both knew he'd seen *the faces* and i'm only glad that at least we have a relationship where we both act like reformed frat boys that belonged to the same house. unfortunately, i looked like a basketball-shorts-wearing-sausage painted red making AWFUL faces at the moment.
having reached the switzerland neutral territory of the lockerroom, i looked up from the floor right into my reflection. my first thought? "OHMYGOD, what's wrong with my face?" i'm not talking about the faces here people. i am talking about my actual face. at first, i thought, "maybe this is just the terrible overhead flourecent gym lighting making my pores look HUGE."
and then i thought, "maybe this is just a boold sugar low fucking with my vision. maybe i'm about to faint."
and when i didn't faint, and instead took unsteady steps toward the huge mirror (WHO PUTS THESE HUGE MIRRORS IN WOMENS LOCKERROOMS AT GYMS?), it appeared that i huge pock-mark-like scars all over my cheek. only, i didn't suffer from severe adolecent acne or any facial burns.
upon closer inspection, it was backwards letters and lines. yes, while doing my crunches before moving to the delt machine, i rested my face on my crossed arms and the sweat transferred my To Do List from where it was sharpied on the back of my left hand to its new, backwards location on my face. like silly putty on a newspaper. candied-apple red, sweaty face, silly putty.
priceless. fucking priceless.