Sweat. Grunting. Hormones.
Spandex. Muscles. More sweat.
More grunting.
I’m talking physical fitness here, not speed dating and I’m
talking a lot of commitment too – again unlike speed dating. Each repetition, each crunch, each set of
dumbbells bringing me closer to that Arnoldesque physique I always envisioned I
would someday have.
I had no idea when my bride coerced me into joining the
local clock-sounding fitness club that I would regain the lost muscles in my
shoulders, or that many seniors regularly work-out and when I say work-out, I
mean work-out. We usually arrive around
9am and leave about an hour to two later and the gym is probably fifty per cent
people in their fifties and over.
Like most everyone in the gym, exercising is a solo activity
and most of us keep their eyes averted and follow the routine they believe will
bring back their vitality – but, I know in my heart each of us are “checking”
everyone else out. It’s a body makeover
place and everyone there is trying to get someplace they either were or want to
go. It’s a place of sweat and people watching.
Talking is nearly impossible anyway, as many wear earbuds,
or Beats headphones, even though the loud speakers are sending out a rhythm
designed to motivate us to higher levels.
Then there are the 12 TV monitors on the ceiling so a person can watch
the sports channels or find out what Rosie O’Donnell and the other clucking
hens think about who knows what.
Me? I’m old school
Rocky, working out in the basement gym.
No headphones for me. I aggressively
move from machine to machine, barely resting and my muscular friend Derik
Hammes tells me this is why I am so sore.
I don’t care. I am there to slam
my body into shape. I want to look like
the 20-30 year olds with the cut physiques, tiny waists, and extra large
biceps. No pain, no gain.
I’m in my third month of 4-6 times a week and I found out
quite early on that my weakest muscle group is my shoulders and on top of
everything else, my left shoulder positively aches at times. I have to set the shoulder press at a lower
weight and do multiple sets to warm up before I move to the heavier stuff.
I would say that the balance of sexes is close to 50 percent
too and that brings up the pump part. The club has a number of organized classes,
one of which is Body Pump where light weights are integrated into a cardio
workout. Would you believe it is mostly
women in that class? Where are all the
behemoth testosteronees? Then there is
the Spin class where a very toned lady rides through a series of exhausting stationary
bicycle up and down hills for an hour yelling encouragement like a buff drill
sergeant. Almost women exclusively here
too and this brings us to big kahuna; the Zumba class.
I pretty much think this is a class for women only, as men’s
hips just can’t replicate what the instructor is asking students to repeat. To be truthful, I do not ever want to be
witnessed doing these moves, or I will be forced to turn in my man card. Don’t get me wrong now, none of it is vulgar,
just feminine in nature and women’s anatomy facilitates the gyrating movements. In fact, I don’t even want to envision
another man doing them.
The Body Pump class is a different story – I think. I want to try it. I think I can do it. I’m just wired in such a way that I don’t
want to fail and especially in front of a bunch of fit womens. Yes, I said womens and I know it is
grammatically improper, but I have to maintain my masculinity by talking like a
caveman. I’m at the gym for crying out
loud.
I’m competitive to a fault.
I’m 62 and everyone there was much younger than me, but I beat them all…
twice. To my horror, it appeared they
might do it again and my man card was suddenly in danger. Claiming my knees might not survive a 3rd
time, I waved, smiled and exited the court into the gym and it took me 3 minutes
to catch my breath over where the small group couldn’t see me.
Never mind. Yea, I’m
ready. Bring on the Body Pump!
