Since my dance career has buried itself deep in the soil of Columbus (Is that the city moto? Columbus: Where modern dance careers go to die?) with very little hint of trying to resurface, I’ve been trying to get my butt back to the gym. The Gym. Home of Lycra, sweat, and insecurity.
It’s either A) run my body in to the ground on the treadmill a few times a week, or 2) buy a new wardrobe. I take an occasional yoga class, which is a nice change of pace, but certainly not the caloric burn I need to eradicate that Pop Tart I had for breakfast.
It’s been a while since I was a gym regular, and my recent return has reminded me of a few things I wish didn’t exist at the gym. Like seeing groin stretches gone wrong. There are some stretches you need to reserve for home use. That includes you, Mr. Mickey Rooney in the short shorts.
Our gym is perhaps the largest gym I’ve ever been in to, so I luckily don’t have to endure the cutthroat business of stalking occupied treadmills. But some of the classes can get full quickly, and it’s not unusual to get the stink eye from someone who can’t put their mat where they want. Ladies, this is not the Hunger Games. This is Yoga class. You’ll still be able to get your downward dog on even if you’re not front and center of the room.
These are really minor grievances. I’m so grateful that we have the means to be able to belong to a gym. It gives me the excuse to leave the house, get my body moving, and take a gloriously kid-free shower that’s not at the harsh butt-crack of dawn before everyone is awake.
However, I still can’t seem to get the routine down. I pack my gym bag the night before, so that it’s ready when we leave for school. But I haven’t done it often enough to have the checklist memorized. There’s no system in place yet.
Yesterday I left my hairbrush at home and scrambled to find a solution to make my hair look less like I got electrocuted. Rummaging through my bag, I felt something that might work and pulled it out.
Eureka! My daughter’s My Little Pony brush! You know, the one for the ponies.
Sure, it’s 1 1/2″ long, purple, and has a total of 8 bristles. But it was better than nothing. I’m redefining the phrase “Gym Rat,” folks.
The day before that, I forgot to bring socks. So I was faced with a haunting dilemma: put my sneakers back on with my cuffed pants and look like a nerd, or wear my clunky Dansko’s without socks and look like a hobo.
And what, exactly, is the protocol for maneuvering around the woman that is standing next to your locker, bending over to dry her hair. Naked? I didn’t handle it well, accidentally bumping her bare backside as I assumed a T-Rex posture to try to get my stuff out of the locker. There’s not enough hand sanitizer to get rid of inappropriateness.
I’m sure once I make this more a habit (and get the hang of dressing room code) I won’t be such a mess. If I don’t keep going, I’ll collapse under the excuses I can conjure up (and the weight of my badonkadonk). Let’s just hope I don’t forget anything really important one day. Like pants.