Gym Dandy!
Why I feel sexy at the club.
For several years now, I’ve been an avid exerciser. Twice a day, I get my body moving in order to look and feel good and also, to exorcise the demons in my head.
Because sometimes, you just gotta slap a bitch.
When I’m on the treadmill, or stationary bike, or busting out one hundred squats, those bitches get dizzy and scram. And my generalized anxiety lessens. At least for a little while.
When I was employed, I belonged to a gym near my office. That was where I spent my lunch hour. (Or, hour and a half, to be perfectly upfront.)
Yes, it was hard to get motivated. Some days I just wanted to go hang out at Target and check out the new beauty products. Or share a joint in the car with one of my like-minded coworkers. (Yes. We did that. We were creatives, after all.)
But, I did none of that. I worked out, instead.
Now I know this sounds obsessive but I suffer from OCD so damn near everything I do or endeavor to do, turns into an obsession. Rather like my writing here on Medium. I grab hold of something and I’m all-in.
I quit the gym when I lost my job as it didn’t make sense to continue to pay the monthly dues. Plus, with a treadmill, stationary bike, hand weights and kettle balls here at home, I figured I was good to go. And, for nearly two years, I was.
My routine went something like this: First thing in the morning, I’d peddle away on the stationary bike for five miles followed by twenty push-ups and thirty tricep dips. I’d suck down a couple of cups of coffee and then start writing.
In the afternoon, I’d complete my daily workout by mixing it up with the treadmill, bikes, weights, and squats.
My husband and I live in a ranch home with a huge finished basement and all my equipment is in the “way back,” as we call it, in front of a TV where I can Netflix-binge while getting my endorphins on.
Sounds boring AF. I know. And, because of the rut I’d dug for myself, one day it hit me that, “I gotta get my ass out of this house.”
Hubby works from home four days a week and there are days when one or the other of us just needs to get the hell out of Dodge. Those of you who work from home with a partner who is also always at home will get what I’m talking about.
Recently, a new gym — part of a chain — opened up near my house and they had a deal too good to pass up: One dollar down to join with monthly dues of ten bucks. Ten bucks! That’s about eight dollars less than the turmeric supplement I buy every month.
I was a bit reticent. What would it be like to be back in a gym with other people as opposed to my mole-like existence? Would my workout clothes still fit? (They did.) Would I go overboard and tear my meniscus again? Did I really need an excuse to leave the house other than to go to the grocery store?
Fuck, yes.
So I joined and for once, I didn’t second-guess myself because this place is the bomb. Huge, open, immaculate and nobody gives a shit about anyone else. People pop in, get their workouts done, and leave.
Members are of all shapes, sizes, and ages. Most people, myself included are “in the zone,” listening to music on headphones or watching one of the many TVs. No one cares what anyone else is doing and that’s how I like it. I feel part of something but not immersed in it, if that makes any sense.
Since joining, I’ve gotten into the habit of going to the gym two or three times a week. And I noticed something: When I’m there, I feel sexy. I’m not looking particularly sexy. No way. My hair is piled up into a mess on top of my head, my face is practically makeup-free (except for a little concealer and mascara, no judge, please) and, unlike some of the younger chicks there, my workout look is anything but hot.
And I don’t care, how I look because I feel strong after using the elliptical or the rowing machine or that tortuous piece of equipment that works the hell out of your shoulders. Strong and sore. In the best possible way.
It’s that strength that makes me feel sexy. Yesterday, I realized that I don’t walk across the gym floor. I strut. Like a cat. It’s not intentional, but merely how my body moves when I’m there.
Being reminded that I’m a sexual being — hell — that’s worth the ten bucks a month alone.
Now on the days when I don’t go to the gym, I exercise here at home. So far, this system is working for me. And I know my husband is glad to have some time off from my nagging him to clean the office or pick up his shit or any number of annoyances that I’m adept at blowing out of proportion.
Yes, people. I can be a pain in the ass.
Writers, we are solitary creatures and being alone so much of the time doesn’t always serve us well. So I suppose the message in this story is if you have a chance to do something good for yourself that doesn’t involve sitting on your arse and staring at your computer monitor, do it! Blow off some of that steam that’s coming out of your ears. You’ll be happier and perhaps healthier, for it.
Gotta go. I’m getting twitchy.
Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.
As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this, please check out the following.
And please check out the great new writers in the following publications.
