Work it out...

My obsession with working out at the gym started at a late age. It happened somewhere between my numerous years at attempting to pass algebra in community college and then finally soaring my wings to the big state college. Being a late-college-bloomer I flew under the radar with my ability to blend with the youngsters while still being the only one old enough to buy beer and rent a car. After numerous attempts of passing algebra with no avail I had plenty of elective classes that I needed to take to occupy my time. Unfortunately they only teach Hip Hop Dance Class I, II, and III and my tenure there did not last long.

"Hey YOU...in the back!" the teacher yells.

(No response)

"Hey YOU white girl!"

I look around like I don't already know I am the only Caucasian in the room.

"Yeah!?" I pant trying to execute the Bobby Brown and Boyz to Men crossover-combo without hitting my peers.

"Go furrrther back..."

Further back? Like outside the class?? What does she mean??

I go for the reverse running man, like I this was part of my master dance-off plan. I knock one unsuspecting dancer off her feet and in turn manage to throw the remaining row of dancers into a four person pile up. Just like dominoes; it really was freakish how they fell on cue.

"Some people are just more challenged" she explains after class as I ice my throbbing ankle "their hearts are in it but their feet just aren't. Maybe a different work out class would be better suited for you...."

Did I really get "asked" to leave Hip Hop class? Who does this happen to?? What do I tell my parents??

Needless to say my aspirations of becoming a "In Living Color Fly Girl" were stomped out before I even could implement my cabbage patch move for the semester's final. So wrong.

What does a washed-up-wannabee-Fly-Girl do for a community college elective if she was politely, but firmly, asked NEVER to come back to class? Well... join Gym 101 with all the other "challenged" students of course.

Single handedly the best political move I could have ever done in my community college career. Apparently there was an overflow from the badminton and bowling team and I now rested at cream of the crop in this class. I became the leader of all people that were cut from teams or asked to leave classes deemed too challenging. The overweight girl that could not hang in the swim class heard from the guy that was too small for the football team that I could whip any one into shape. I became the new age Richard Simmons or the lady from Fame that tapped the cane counting "5-6...5-6-7-8....!". A blond pony tail and pink bandanna with a mission: to bring satisfaction to every exiled second rate, no-rhythm, overweight student in all of community college. Looking back I am not even certain that the teacher was present. If he/she was I am sure they were jumping on the Sadowski-Jazzercise-Bring-It-On-Train; it's the stuff legends are made of after all.

I moved on to State College from my long attendance at community college. I was now a small fish in a big pond. I had to find my niche. Kids here were much more strong minded not to mention good looking. My acquiring followers would be much more difficult. I went to Plan B: join a gym--a "real" gym.

I find out quickly that regular gym goers are a unique breed. They can actually be considered mentally unstable in some circles but it is usually not good to cross someone that is leaner, stronger, and boasts biceps bigger than your head. I tried to hang out in all the different gym crowds.

First there was the early morning water aerobics with the retired ladies. I was easily the youngest by 40 years. Before you start thinking these are nice little grandmas that will bring you cookies and milk I have two words for you: hard core. Not exactly welcoming me with open arms this group means business.

"Alright ladies now lets kick those legs up on the pool deck and give me 75 sit ups!" the Nazi-instructor belts out. Instantly women in their 80s are throwing both legs up on the deck. Before I even have a chance to contemplate how to actually maneuver into this position they have taken over the whole side of the pool and are counting in some crazed militant fashion.

I sideways look at my nemesis Grandma Moses and wonder if she is actually going to let me participate in the "fun" this time. From day one this woman has been nothing but a thorn in my side.

"Ummm..." I say quietly "Do you think I can squeeze in here...?" I point at the one foot of space left.

"29...30...31" Moses' drill Sergeant voice echoes throughout the pool as she belts out her sit ups.

"Ummmm...."I start again but this time try to politely position myself next to her--you know-- hold my ground.

"You are TOO BIG! You won't fit!" She yells just loud enough so I am sure the basketball players outside can hear.

Did she just call me fat?

"TOOOOO BIG! Taken--this area is taaaaaken".

No way. What is she 12 years old? Not this time Mama Moses, I decide. I will show her. I push my way in not caring what casualties I take with me. Two can play this game. I start to flip my legs up on the deck and she throws an elbow. I counter her elbow with a jab to her ribs.

"Owwww---she HIT ME! My RIBS!!!" She screeches across the pool. Oh great. I actually feel bad and go to help her get back to standing position and she throws another elbow; this time with more conviction. In the struggle I decide to let go of her flailing body and let her calm down. This situation is out of hand. She sinks to the bottom of the pool while holding her side.

Oh my dear goodness, I think to myself, my membership dues are so going up.....

The instructor dives dramatically into the pool and proceeds to pull Grandma Moses up from what I think is the brink of death.

"Are you OK??" I ask once I see she is in fact conscious.

"She tried to KILL ME!" she wags her finger my direction "I told her she was too big and she didn't listen so she tried to KILL ME!"

Seriously? Kill is such a strong word.

"You threw the first elbow!" I yell back. The whole entire swim class is now mad-dogging me. I think I even heard some booing and hissing but it was hard to tell over Mama Moses' screams.

I look to the crowd for someone to defend my honor. Everyone knows that Mama Moses is a tyrant. Somebody has got to see that Moses is not some feeble grandma--she is just a wrinkly bully that preys on newcomers.

"That's it Sadowski! You are out of here!" the instructor/wannabee umpire points at the door.

"Wha....? SHE STARTED IT!". More disapproving looks from the crowd. No one will even make eye contact with me.

"Really??? You know my grandma has a bad hip you want to stop by later and push her down too?" the instructor sneers at me.

So uncalled for.

I slowly get out of the pool. Conveniently my towel is missing and I get to do the walk of shame shivering all the way to the locker room. I look back one last time to see if I have any supporters. I even think about shouting 'who's with me???' but I figure my efforts are futile.

One last look at the evil Mama Moses who claims I injured her and for a split second I see her smirk as she does a perfect breast stroke across the pool. I feel like applauding and shouting "...and the Oscar goes to MEAN MAMA MOSES!" but think about the potentially raised membership dues and the whole legal suit and decide to let it go.
Who gets run out of water aerobics by an 80 year old? It is so wrong. On so many levels.

My second attempt at acceptance went down shortly thereafter in the bad neighborhood of the gym; the weight lifting area. The bad neighborhood, otherwise known as the prison yard, requires each member have full-sleeves of tattoos and be able to grunt louder than anyone else so everyone knows you are the strongest kid in the yard.

I walk past the man adoring his pecs in the mirror. He love his pecs and it is apparent in the way that he talks to them "ohhhh yeah.. you are sooo good". The key is to not make eye contact. Eye contact will imply that you too think his pecs are the best thing since the 10 protein shakes he downed this morning.

I pass the man lifting 400 times his body weight and his spotter. The spotter makes me blush with his dirty talk to the man.

"Ohhhh yeah baby. You got it. Just one more. You got it baby--you got it baby. Ooooh yeah!' he chants. The machinist is grunting so loud that I actually think that the large vein popping out of his neck is going to start its own zip code.

How is this acceptable?

I reach for the 10 pound weights all the while wondering who decided that increments of 10 is the way to go? Where is the love for the three pounders? A man named Sly feels that it is his life's mission to tell me everything I am doing wrong.

"You know you are cheating.." he shouts over the Tupac blaring in the background and the clanking of weights.

Cheating? How is it cheating if I am sweating and have lost mobility in my chicken winged arm
"You are cheating your body of what it needs. Your body craves proper lifting...here I will show you how it is done..." he picks up a hundred pound weight like it is a three pounder. This was the start of a complex relationship. I appease Sly and follow his genius level weight lifting advice for weeks. He knows weights-- his body boasts the biggest biceps in the yard. He convinces me that my body is a temple and the only way to absolution is to be the biggest meat head. I envision me going back to the swim class and giving Mama Moses a run for her money. My arms are freakishly manly and I actually put on a dress shirt that I can't get my pythons through without feeling like The Hulk. I frequent words like "shredded", "cut" and ask people if they need tickets to "the gun show" and actually think it is gets more funny every time I say it. Unfortunately the Mr. Miyagi-Daniel San relationship came to a screeching halt the day I was leaving the gym and I see Sly taking a Marlboro break in between sets. After all the bonding we had been through? All the times we grunted and rooted each other on! His eyes averted and he avoided eye contact the same way Zsa Zsa Gabor might if you caught her giving marriage advice. I never have returned to the prison yard feeling I was socked in the rock hard abs by hypocritical Sly. It's still too soon; the pain is too fresh.

Unable to find my niche in the gym world I decide to at least reap the benefits of the amenities. I like to hang out in the sauna and steam room and see what the bizarre under achievers are doing. You know the type. The person that sits in the sauna and calls it a work out? At my gym this is the Sun-Lee dynasty. I am not sure but I am pretty certain this pack of mothers, sisters, grandmothers, and distant cousins bypass the rows of machines and the swimming pool only to set up shop in the sauna and steam room. Their leader, Min Sun Lee, operates the steam. You aren't melting enough? No worries--she turns it up 40 more degrees and then gives you hot tea and 5 reasons why you should thank her. They brag about their steam room stamina--or at least if I spoke their native tongue I think this is what they would talk about. They grunt often and have no regard for being naked. Their idea of personal space totally differs from my idea of personal space. I have perfected staring at the ceiling and wearing two towels to cover myself since Min has been known to rip the towels off of new comers.

"You sit! Drink Tea!" she will say to newcomers all the while she rips the towel off of your body and throws it out of the room "Heat takes away all evil".

It's kind of a two-for-one deal: inspiration AND 15 pounds of lost water weight.

I tease but I have really grown to love the simplicities of my fellow gym goers. I love their costumes too. Like the martial arts guy with the shirt that says "Judo-n't know who you is messing with" or the big galoot in the corner with the shirt that says "I lift heavy things". This is pure enlightenment.

Overall I have lightened up on the judging of this eclectic bunch. I still love to run, lift weights, and be a gym rat. I am just not as concerned as "finding that niche" or following I was so concentrated on before. I am more comfortable in my skin than I have been in years and will still sweat to the oldies with the gym crew any day of the week. I even was lucky enough to have found my niche in the bizarre world of racquetball and have said good riddance to the Mama Moses', Slys and Sun-Lee dynasties of the world. Oh don't get me wrong; I do get to see them all from time-to-time..... usually when Grandma Moses and The Girls are waiting for me at my car to finish up some unfinished business.

xoxo

lms