Adventures in Pain

 By Tracy Hensley Bumpus

Originally published in 2009

 

Last Wednesday, we as a family purchased a family membership at our local gym. Hubby figured it would be something he and son could do together. Son likes it because he can work out and “get buff” with weights.

 

I tag along in a state of grumpy martyrdom. Okay, I realize I need to do something to get my butt moving. I sit in front of a computer twelve hours a day. I got so stiff at one point I had to have physical therapy. I’m trying to figure out a way to write off massage therapy as a business expense. I’m 42 and I’ve gained thirty pounds in 2008 after having lost 30 pounds in 2007. It sucks.

 

My individual introductory session last week was conducted by a fellow I would term as a Richard Simmons wannabe. He was just WAY too bouncy and enthusiastic. He’s giving me high fives for making it two minutes on the treadmill without falling on my ass and I’m rolling my eyes behind his back. Well, I rolled my eyes until I realized the whole place has mirrors so he was actually seeing me roll my eyes behind his back. I decided that since he was “helping me stretch” (actually trying to dislocate my hip like a chicken leg from the carcass), I’d better be nice. I put on my “Oh! I’m so happy to be here!” face after that.

 

“Dick” took me through several stretches and ran me through the modern torture machines on the floor to give me an idea of what I should be doing to “loosen up my hips”. Yeah right. That’s gym rat code for shrink my butt. As I’m gritting my teeth and hoping I have lots of Advil at home, I’m thinking “You know, someone somewhere actually designs these weird things. Who sits around and thinks of how to mechanically move the human body in every possible direction?” Sicko.

 

Prior to running the resistance machine gauntlet, Dick (actually, I think his name was David but who cares) did this thing he called “foam rolling” on the large muscles of my legs. Essentially, this was like taking a rolling pin and rolling the muscles like biscuit dough. It was awful! I don’t have biscuit dough muscles and I’m pretty sure they weren’t ever meant to be rolled like that. I silently decided that was for the birds and those foam things would never get near me again. Dick didn’t realize how close he came to being beat about the head with a sweaty towel. Lucky for him I’ve been through natural childbirth and can endure high levels of pain.

 

One of the problems I’ve always had with gyms is that it feels like there is an “in” crowd at the gym. They wear all the right work out clothes, have the expensive tennis shoes, and are so skinny that you wonder why they are at the gym anyway. Then you realize they actually LIVE here and you feel even more like an out-of-town visitor. The gym rats are also all in their twenties and have perpetual tans. That means they have no kids and fairly stressless jobs (like waiting tables at Hooters) so they can spend lots of time at the tanning booth or by the pool. And at the gym.

 

I certainly don’t fit in. I’m over 40, 40 pounds overweight and dressed like I just stepped out of Goodwill. My shoes are Payless specials and I have no electronic “gear” such as an Ipod or a cell phone arm band. I’m thinking maybe I should bring my kitchen timer along next time and pretend it’s some sort of new, cutting-edge heart rate monitor or something. I could duct tape it to my calf or something. You know – just to blend in with the crowd.

 

Saturday was my first “real” day at the gym when I could do what I wanted to without Dick following me around counting reps and saying sappy encouraging things like “Feel the burn!” or “No pain no gain”. I did my stretches I learned in 1983 from my Jane Fonda album and then got on the treadmill. I knew enough not to stand on it directly to start it but beyond that, it was like looking at the dashboard of the space shuttle. Buttons, lights flashing, all kinds of gauges and indicators. I decided to risk it and started going through the preflight – flaps down, trim up, fuel rich, hit the starter…okay, it’s moving. Now to taxi out carefully. I stepped on it and held onto the handrails for dear life as I watched the dashboard for anomalies.

 

I finally figured out that one indicator was time that was counting up – that tells me how long it will take for me to drop dead. The next indicator tells me what incline I’m walking at – set that puppy to 0! The next one is speed. And the one on the far right tells number of calories burned. Okay, I’m getting the hang of this so I increase my speed to 3.1 mph. Not bad. I’m a naturally fast walker so this feels okay. I still can’t let go of the handlebars, though, because I get dizzy but I’m feeling less like an idiot. Confidence is building. I chuck the speed up to 3.5 and now we’re truckin’.

 

I notice there are TVs in front of me hanging from the ceiling. One is on ESPN (of course), one is on a music video channel, and one is on Fox News. The only one I can hear is the music channel and it has some weird group on it so I try to watch the Fox News channel. I can’t hear it but it has subtitles. I then realize I can’t SEE the subtitles without my glasses. I don’t have my glasses on because they would slide off my face with the sweat that is rapidly building. So I decide to try to read lips but soon realize I can check that off as one more thing I can’t do very well, along with biscuit roll muscles.

 

My breath is coming shorter and I notice my attitude is starting to change. I’m no longer just grumpy. I’m starting to think evil thoughts such as “Whoever invented treadmills should be shot”, “Whoever invented that foam roller thing should be tortured and then shot”, and “Whoever invented small print subtitles should have their eyes poked out”. I realize I’m breathing really hard and I glance down at the dashboard. I’ve only been on the dang thing five minutes, I’ve walked three-tenths of a mile and I’ve only burned 15 calories. WHAT??? This was going to be worse than I expected and I expected really bad.

 

Slowly I begin to realize there is a guy in front of me on one of the shoulder torture devices who continues to look at me. Now I KNOW it’s not because I’m a hot babe – HA – I’ve not had a shower, no makeup, I’m sweating like a racehorse, and my face probably looks like the hind-end of a baboon. Then it dawns on me why he’s staring at me. In my ignorance of gym etiquette, I had neglected to wear an athletic bra and instead just wore my regular old, stretched out, comfortable Playtex. Newton’s Third Law of Motion – for each action, there is an equal and opposite reaction – was in play under my “I gave blood” t-shirt. Oh brother.

 

I glanced at the dashboard and saw that I was halfway to my goal of 2 miles so I was darned if I was going to stop ‘cause my boobs were crashing around like ping pong balls in a gallon-size pickle jar. I’d burned a whopping 98 calories, dammit, and I was in the peak of the distance counter. I was going to finish this or die trying.

 

My only recourse was to give the guy my “Evil Teacher Look”. Every teacher and most moms know this look, but former and current middle school teachers are best at it. It’s the look that says “I know what you are thinking and you are going to spend the rest of your life in detention if you don’t straighten up RIGHT NOW.” I leveled my gaze at him and fired away. It worked! Hah! It worked! He suddenly decided that his shoulders were shredded enough and decided to move across the room to the gorilla section.

 

Now that I was rid of Mr. Pervert, I decided to work on my attitude a bit. After all, I’m in sales and I know that attitude is more than half the battle. I’m also a pretty competitive person, especially with myself, so I decided to challenge myself to think positive thoughts. Positive thoughts. Okay. Think. What is good about this? My mental silence was deafening. It was so quiet that I could actually hear my ears ringing from the residual hangover of that long-ago Bruce Springsteen concert. I was a complete blank.

 

Suddenly, it was like God heard me and gave me inspiration. Miss Size 4 got on the treadmill directly to my left and started taxiing. I thought “Heh, I’ve got a head start on her! I’m already at a mile and a half!” As she’s tippy-toeing along at a leisurely warm-up speed of 2 mph, I kick it up to 3.7 and increase the incline to .5. I’ll show her! I’ve got this down. I used to be the fastest to complete a mile in my ninth grade gym class and that included the boys so I know I can beat her.

 

I glance at my dashboard and the heart rate monitor is flashing red. I wonder vaguely in the back of my mind if that is a bad thing. I wipe the sweat off my nose with my towel and keep going. I’m feeling confident then Miss Size 4 starts RUNNING! What is she doing? Isn’t there a rule that you can’t do that for safety reasons? You could get hurt or hurt someone else, right? I kick up the incline on my machine to 1.0. She may be running but I’m climbing Mt. Everest at 3.5 mph. Let’s see her match that!

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her treadmill start to rise at the front. My dashboard starts beeping loudly at me. I glance around for one of those portable defibrillators like they have now at airports because I’m starting to think I may need one. They do train these gym monitors how to do CPR, right? Just don’t let it be Dick that comes to my rescue. I’d rather die, please. Mr. Pervert can stay away, too. Just drag me out to the parking lot and let the Schwann’s truck run over me. That’s the way I want to go.

 

“Are you going to go into cool down or keep going?” It’s Miss Size 4 talking to me. She can run and talk at the same time? Holy cow! It’s Superwoman in disguise. I glance at her in oxygen-deprived confusion. “Huh?” I puff. “Your timer is going off” she says. I then realize the beeping sound of the dashboard isn’t the warning signal for eminent heart failure but rather that I’ve completed my assigned 2 miles and need to slow down to give my noodle legs a chance to recover before I actually try to walk on dry land.

 

I drop the incline on my machine so fast my ears pop and start backing off on the speed. I’m almost done thank goodness. Mentally, I’m rummaging through my medicine cabinet for something more powerful than Advil because I’m pretty sure I’m going to need it. Maybe I have some hydrocodone left from my gall bladder removal. I glance up at the TVs once more and lo and behold – it’s Bon Jovi and their new video “Have a Nice Day”. Ah, Jon Bon Jovi! After all these years, he’s still hot and has great teeth.

 

Suddenly, I time travel back to 1984 when none of my joints creaked, Levi’s fit, and I could squat down without my feet going to sleep. I smile. I made it. Not only through this first two miles of pain but also through the last 25 years of life. I glance at Miss Size 4 and decide I wouldn’t trade places with her. I’ve learned a lot since I was a size four and endured more pain that this treadmill can dish out. My butt may be the size of a barn but my character is Olympic-class.

 

Now if I can just remember which locker is mine…