A modern device of self-torture
What is my pronoun’s antecedent? I cannot say, for even as I work out, I am not always sure why. Or who, what, when, where. I know that I am the one tasked with maintaining my body, and that I am at the age where bouncing back from ill-advised indulgences is not so easy, thus the working out. Which should answer a few of those five Ws. But there is very little I understand about life, mine or yours. I do think I know some of why I go to the gym. One reason is that I have to, much like I have to go to the dentist. I mean, I don’t have to, but if I don’t, the consequences are a motherfucker.
Start again because this essay, like my workout routine, is all about reps done quickly.
I started going to gym in my thirties because I was tired of being fat and nowhere near done drinking beer or eating pizza. My doctor, who I also started seeing regularly, advised simple cardo stuff and some weight training to build bone density. And I was with someone who wanted to go with me to the gym, which was fun. I like working out with this person. I like working out for her so I can stay in some shape approximating attractive, at least to her.
I once got winked at in a gym locker room. I dined out on that compliment for weeks.
I stopped going to the gym for a few years. Then my back started rebelling. I went to chiropractors. They were helpful to an extent, but most of them tried upselling no end of apparatus that would fit right into a David Cronenberg film. One made my back worse, so I went to a physical therapist who told me that I should work out regularly to keep my core strong and my back functional. And so here I am back at the gym with surprising regularity.
I sometimes think of Henry Rollins and his gym philosophy. Or Kathy Acker who also wrote about the gym in ways that are infinitely more intelligent than the rhetoric of the average podcast bro looksmaxxer. These heroes make me considerably more willing to get out of bed and torture my muscles. Working out is punk. Once upon a time, so was chain-smoking.
My membership with one athletic association permits me access to multiple gyms. The one closest to home is where I work out next to mostly older men and women. The men in this locker room are very comfortable with their bodies. Good for them. My modesty has similarly relaxed as I’ve aged. This is my dumb, lumpy body. It’s sometimes a pain covering it up. Fuck it—take a peek if you must.
The gym I go to on the way to work is full of healthy, toned, buff young people. I do not fit in, but there I am doing my simple exercises while they take workout selfies.
The gym is a microcosm of society. Which is I why I tend to find many of the people at the gym annoying. These are the types of people I have encountered while working out:
The before-mentioned Insta clout chasers
They can handle an impressive amount of weight, but they get mad when you walk between them and the camera recording their dead lifts. They will only workout in front of the mirror. Their athleisure wear would not be inappropriate at a club. The money spent on these garments could feed a Cuban village for months. Their hair and makeup are always on point.
The texters
Disobeying the rule against cell phone usage, they cannot stop playing with their gadgets even when it seems like they get zero pleasure from thumbing and scrolling. Their addiction is so raging that it interrupts their workout, which wouldn’t bother me were I not waiting for them to stop fucking with their phones and finish their sets. They always sit at the machine I want to use, whittling away five minutes on their phones before even thinking about, you know, working out. Their muscles have cooled and recovered by the time they lift something heavier than an Android, making each new set of exercises very much like the first. As a result, they think the ease of lifting this weight means they are in great shape.
The Water Boys
These young men are swoll, shredded, “built different!” and so forth. They have the jock’s deadeye stare as they pump! They wear T-shirts that say Lift Heavy Sh*t because they are so badass even when they censor naughty words. They carry ridiculously oversized water jugs and hydrate because that’s mad important, bro. They grunt. A lot. With every rep. Because they lift a full stack. And grunts are primordial. Bestial. They go beast mode at the gym. They follow gymfluencers who preach surface-level positivity. They never re-rack weights because how else would the rest of us know how much they can lift? They occasionally tell the rest of us what we’re doing wrong and offer to coach us if we’re looking for a trainer. Maybe just like and subscribe?
The Interval Colonizer
The guy working out across three different spaces will get very upset if you use one of the weights or machines he has reserved with his hand towel. He also tends to sit and text between intervals, but give him a minute, dude, he has one more set on that shoulder press machine. 70% chance he won’t wipe down the machines when he’s finally done. Marking his territory.
The Rest of Us
The folks who are not sure why we’re in this facility with these people who are probably lovely in many ways but right now are grunting and sweating and making us feel inadequate. We tend to do our routines quickly, with an eye on the finish line. We get on the treadmill and watch the clock. We feel the best moment of the workout is its conclusion. To be sure, the hardest part of our workout is summoning the will to visit the gym. We regard exercise as necessary but don’t fetishize it the way we do food or literature or knitting or craft beer. We are work-to-live not live-to-work. We don’t grind. We chip away.
I will admit that I feel good after a gym session. Today is no different; I’m in a better mood post-workout, am feeling a lot better than I felt yesterday, a day of doubt and frustration and anger that I can only partially explain. Everything yesterday was dark and wrong, as if the atmosphere had been poisoned by a soul-eroding virus. Today’s sunnier disposition has to do with endorphins, for even as I hated waking up, packing a gym bag, driving to the gym, being among the people in the gym, showering in sub-optimal conditions, well, now all that’s done and the rest of the day is ahead of me, and I feel goddamn happy. Maybe that’s what the “it” in “Working It Out” is: the medieval spleen bile that, were it retained in my body, would keep me a grumpy fucker.
I recall a friend telling me once that vomiting was the body making room for more beer. An unfortunate T-shirt I once saw read: sweat is fat crying. Tears make us feel better because they expel the horrors behind our eyes. Working out is me letting out the bad humors. Which keeps me ready for another day of whatever the fuck is coming.
