The tagline under my blog title says “An Orange in Pluto”. Pluto was my favourite planet until these fickle astronomers betrayed me and said it’s not a planet at all. I choose to ignore that.
I feel like an orange in Pluto – as out of place as that – in many places. The gym is one of those places.
- Physically, I am broader, shorter and heavier than most of them on the floor.
- I am NOT a fan of David Guetta. Everyone else seems to think he is god and his music an essential element of workout.
- The gym is not for short people. I need help to reach a lot of the equipment. I feel like a kid.
- I find it hard to understand why there are so many gym-crazed school kids these days. Call me old fashioned, but I think the playground should be their place – to play and talk and have fun. Not the gym floor where they have old men staring at their teenaged butts.
- I feel weird around most women on the floor. I do enjoy gossip, but just the kind where you exchange meaty bits of information and indulge in some harmless bitching about celebrities. Not this weird shopping- gossip that is basically a veiled competition titled “Biggest Spender Wins.” I have nothing against luxury or indulgence, but this constant fight about who’s track-pants are fancier is irritating. Especially when this money is doing nothing to stop the pants from getting into their butt cracks.
- Most people seem to be comfortable in clothes that are as tight-fitting as they can get. Regardless of what is the size that is “fitting.” I like air. My shirts are a size bigger than I need.
- Too many people admiring their own pectorals/abs/breasts. I couldn’t do it in public even when I didn’t have the extra pounds.
- I feel like I am the only one who wants to hide the bra straps under my shirt.
- Sweaty underarm hair is GROSS. How do you tell that to people? Especially the men who MUST wear sleeveless vests to show off their biceps?
- Old men with very-tight, super-short shorts. Leaves little to the imagination. Enough said.
They’re not all bad. Even those mentioned above aren’t really bad; they just have quirks I cannot wrap my mind around. I am sure they refer to me as “That-girl-who-won’t-remove-her-spectacles”. I have some friends at the gym and they are nice enough. But I still feel it’s not a place where I belong. I enjoy the workout but – you know, I am an orange working out in Pluto.
Also, everybody is super excited and has taken up the job of motivating each other. We even have a PCOS gang and we discuss frustrations over slow weight loss and compete over the most imbalanced hormones in the changing room from time to time. Whoever has the worst story to offer is the best motivator for others. It’s like when you find out there is at least one more person behind you in the race.
The ladies’ changing room is an entertaining place. I use it for changing and exchanging gossip (Of course!) I have learned that it can also be used as –
- Place to take selfies. And if you can somehow get a broader-waisted-woman in the background, it’s perfect to be WhatsApp-ed to everyone.
- Exchange information on gynaecologists and nutritionists and lipstick shades and sales at the mall.
- Discuss the firmness and roundness of breasts. [It seems if you can soak your breasts in a tub of ice water for 10 minutes each night, your breasts will resemble Scarlett Johansson’s even when you turn 60. I am WAY too lazy to do that.]
- Discuss the perverseness or attractiveness of men
- Find out where to get the best Louis Vuitton duplicates.
I keep telling myself I am at the gym as a way of moving toward a “healthy” lifestyle. I have to keep reminding myself this little fact. Because the gym can be both maddeningly absurd and heartbreakingly intimidating at times. There is also this genius who decided to open a pizza place on the third floor of the building where my gym is. Asshole.
And then there is me, who is panting on the treadmill, worrying about the panty-line, cursing my way through the bench press, happy with oversized Spiderman T-shirts and forever tempted by the smell of melting cheese.