The only thing I like about going to the gym is my pink under armour pants. As the elevator goes down to my apartment gym, the feeling of dread in my body goes up.
I question my sanity at deciding to go. The trek alone is a workout, a walk to the elevator, standing in the elevator, and then a couple of steps to the entrance.
I’m sweating.
All I want is to be back in my apartment, gorging on jars of Nutella and rich bakery bread. I know the horrible machines will be there to greet me when I arrive. The only thing worse than seeing the machines-being greeted by a real live person.
I hate working out with other people. Even if I’m listening to music and we’re not talking, their very presence seems to drain the energy from my body.
A gym is an easy place to make enemies. I don’t like the people who run beside me. I am sweaty and I am grumpy. I wish they would leave. I try to sneak a glance at their treadmill and see how fast they’re going. I get this idea in my head that we’re in a race, me and this stranger on a treadmill.
I don’t want to lose, I will beat them to the ugly brown wall in front of us. We are both so close, I can almost touch it. But it seems we’re tied, both not making any progress towards that brown wall of poop.
I am disappointed in how I stay stagnant despite apparently burning up all these calories. I am also disappointed at the decorators who painted a gym wall such an ugly colour. There is no effort, no sunshine, and no grass to pretend like we’re at least running towards a destination. The only destination is the brown wall, forever looming in front of us but just out of reach.
I want to get off the treadmill, touch the wall, and tell the girl running beside me that I won, I beat her to it. But she is too immersed in her run, not paying me any attention. She looks like she enjoys running around on this treadmill like a hamster on a wheel.
Easily entertained.
I shake my head.
Running outside would be better, but it is downtown Toronto, and it is late. I don’t want to be stabbed in the back by someone who just feels like tonight is a good night to carry a knife and stab a pink panted running girl.
I am a good target too, gulping in the exhaust from passing motorists and blasting a variety of country music and Justin Bieber. The music in my ears is so loud I wouldn’t be able to hear an approaching knife man.
Right now in the gym I know I am safe. The concierge would take down anybody who tried to sneak in to the apartment building. I have complete faith in him.
I’ve seen him glare angrily at his computers security cameras, no doubt watching a drug exchange or something.
He sits in his chair, an eagle in his nest, waiting and watching.
The only threat to me in here is the girl running beside me and our race to the wall.
She has been running for longer than I have, but where is her sweat? I wipe off my forehead, the sweat on me seems to be everywhere, dripping attractively off my eyelids and running down my face.
It’s been 10 minutes. I am almost ready to give up the race. I will forfeit before I can reach the brown wall, but she will die trying.
I am a treadmill expert now, confident that neither of us will ever reach it.
11 minutes into the run and the wall I’m heading towards is looking like a giant slab of Nutella. I try to think of the abs I want to get, of the body I would have if I just continued running. But the wall looks like Nutella, I can’t keep going. I know my roommate has a giant jar of it in the cupboard upstairs. A couple of spoonful’s out of the jar she surely won’t notice.
I give one last ugly glare to the girl as I step off my treadmill. I don’t like her although we have never spoken. She is my gym enemy. She won the race. I am not disgusted with myself for giving up, it is much easier to be disgusted with her.
I turn on my heel, making sure to show off my bright pink pants. She may have a better body, but I still have better pants.
I begin the journey back upstairs, the elevator cannot go fast enough. I am finally free of all those machines and that hamster girl.
The Nutella in my apartment is calling my name.
I question my sanity at deciding to go. The trek alone is a workout, a walk to the elevator, standing in the elevator, and then a couple of steps to the entrance.
I’m sweating.
All I want is to be back in my apartment, gorging on jars of Nutella and rich bakery bread. I know the horrible machines will be there to greet me when I arrive. The only thing worse than seeing the machines-being greeted by a real live person.
I hate working out with other people. Even if I’m listening to music and we’re not talking, their very presence seems to drain the energy from my body.
A gym is an easy place to make enemies. I don’t like the people who run beside me. I am sweaty and I am grumpy. I wish they would leave. I try to sneak a glance at their treadmill and see how fast they’re going. I get this idea in my head that we’re in a race, me and this stranger on a treadmill.
I don’t want to lose, I will beat them to the ugly brown wall in front of us. We are both so close, I can almost touch it. But it seems we’re tied, both not making any progress towards that brown wall of poop.
I am disappointed in how I stay stagnant despite apparently burning up all these calories. I am also disappointed at the decorators who painted a gym wall such an ugly colour. There is no effort, no sunshine, and no grass to pretend like we’re at least running towards a destination. The only destination is the brown wall, forever looming in front of us but just out of reach.
I want to get off the treadmill, touch the wall, and tell the girl running beside me that I won, I beat her to it. But she is too immersed in her run, not paying me any attention. She looks like she enjoys running around on this treadmill like a hamster on a wheel.
Easily entertained.
I shake my head.
Running outside would be better, but it is downtown Toronto, and it is late. I don’t want to be stabbed in the back by someone who just feels like tonight is a good night to carry a knife and stab a pink panted running girl.
I am a good target too, gulping in the exhaust from passing motorists and blasting a variety of country music and Justin Bieber. The music in my ears is so loud I wouldn’t be able to hear an approaching knife man.
Right now in the gym I know I am safe. The concierge would take down anybody who tried to sneak in to the apartment building. I have complete faith in him.
I’ve seen him glare angrily at his computers security cameras, no doubt watching a drug exchange or something.
He sits in his chair, an eagle in his nest, waiting and watching.
The only threat to me in here is the girl running beside me and our race to the wall.
She has been running for longer than I have, but where is her sweat? I wipe off my forehead, the sweat on me seems to be everywhere, dripping attractively off my eyelids and running down my face.
It’s been 10 minutes. I am almost ready to give up the race. I will forfeit before I can reach the brown wall, but she will die trying.
I am a treadmill expert now, confident that neither of us will ever reach it.
11 minutes into the run and the wall I’m heading towards is looking like a giant slab of Nutella. I try to think of the abs I want to get, of the body I would have if I just continued running. But the wall looks like Nutella, I can’t keep going. I know my roommate has a giant jar of it in the cupboard upstairs. A couple of spoonful’s out of the jar she surely won’t notice.
I give one last ugly glare to the girl as I step off my treadmill. I don’t like her although we have never spoken. She is my gym enemy. She won the race. I am not disgusted with myself for giving up, it is much easier to be disgusted with her.
I turn on my heel, making sure to show off my bright pink pants. She may have a better body, but I still have better pants.
I begin the journey back upstairs, the elevator cannot go fast enough. I am finally free of all those machines and that hamster girl.
The Nutella in my apartment is calling my name.