While waiting impatiently for my personal trainer to return from vacation (we’ll be reunited and it will feel so good; I got a little taste of reunion a month or so ago, when we worked out together as bros; oooh, I’m so butch!), I took steps to force myself to go to the gym with more consistency. Namely, I gained access to its other locations, including one five blocks from my office.
I went there yesterday on my lunch break for the first time, partly to work out and partly to get out of my office for a while. Ever since I quit smoking, I just sit at my desk all day, glum. But the gym would get me moving!
Oh boy, did it. This gym is terrifying. It’s in the basement, in a pit, and so crowded that some of the machines face each other. And the people! I hadn’t really thought about it, but when you go to a gym in Union Square, you’re pretty much guaranteed an intimidating bunch of extras, from the dancer giving bitch face to the men three times my size coming over to give me pointers on my form. Please, sir, you’re scaring me! And also making me feel bad about myself.
(The worst thing about the whole excursion is that I still got a blinding headache at 4:45 from sitting at my desk for too long.)