Magical moments while at the gym
Monday, July 04, 2005
By HOPE GATTO
Source
I live in a city famous for its pork roll. My friends and I eat meatballs at midnight and play a very competitive game of Rock, Paper, Scissors to see who's going to the kitchen for more onion dip during "Survivor." We are a big, happy, fat-craving bunch. But, oddly enough, when a luxurious fitness center opened nearby, we immediately signed right up.
Never having gone to a gym, I was shocked upon entering the locker room for the first time. Women of all ages and sizes paraded up and down the dressing area striking pose after pose as if they were working a runway. The ladies had towels, but they were draped over the arm rather than around the body, which is where the towel really becomes key.
Some chatted casually as they lounged on the benches, their untouched clothing piled next to them. It was like stepping into an Italian renaissance painting, only the stock bunches of grapes and goblets of wine had been replaced with MP3 players and bottles of water. Clearly, my plan of exclusively using the changing area to lock up my personal belongings was not universal. Eyes downward, I quickly put my coat in my locker and made my way out to the main part of the gym.
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After 10 minutes of standing around, being intimidated by the exercise equipment, I seriously considered just going home. Then I remembered that my coat was still back in Club Risque. I could leave it there, I thought. It wasn't very cold outside. I didn't even particularly like that coat.
I peered down the hall to see a boxing class beginning and I bravely decided to try something new. My late entrance to the class required the instructor to take me off to the side, show me how to put on the hand wraps and gloves, and give me a quick lesson in the four punches utilized in class.
He then told all of us to pair up - one would work a punching bag and the other would hold it steady. I sidled up to a petite woman who didn't look capable of raising her heavy gloves above her waist, let alone punch the bag with any real force. My job of holding for her would be easy. When it was my turn, I'd definitely look a hundred times more powerful. The boxing instructor, sure to be seriously impressed, would probably want to train me for some professional bouts.
I smiled at my small partner right before she struck the punching bag with such a monstrous wallop that it flew into my chest causing my heart and lungs to vibrate.
"Hold it tighter," she ordered in a deep voice. I began to reconsider my brilliance in taking up a new sport at the ripe old age of 31. After working desperately to hold the bag steady for Miss Rocky Balboa, my own punches fell exhausted and limp upon the weighty, red canvas and I began to doubt my future as a pro boxer. When the instructor said it was time to spar alone with him in the center of the room, my title fight fantasies resurfaced in all of their magnificent glory. This was where I'd prove myself. This was where I'd triumph.
When it was my turn, I approached him like a dedicated bruiser. Although I barely connected with his mitts, I couldn't help but wonder if the crowd would chant my first or my last name when I entered the ring. I hesitated before each punch and flinched whenever he moved, but I believed he saw potential. He knew he was in the presence of a fighter with heart.
After my 60-second round with him, I was sweating like a convict on a chain gang in Alabama and decided that I would choose a light periwinkle for the color of my professional boxing trunks and robe. Irrational as it is, picturing myself as a future prizefighter gives me incredible confidence. When I don those boxing gloves twice a week at the gym I am herculean and I don't care if anyone thinks otherwise.
Perhaps the women in the locker room feel the same as they promenade the post-modern catwalks of New York, Paris and Milan in their minds. They feel ravishing and fabulous after another rigorous workout spent sculpting their bodies. They truly savor the aplomb they've earned with determination, dedication and sweat.
The gym is incredibly magical in that way. There we are all more than what meets the eye.
By HOPE GATTO
Source
I live in a city famous for its pork roll. My friends and I eat meatballs at midnight and play a very competitive game of Rock, Paper, Scissors to see who's going to the kitchen for more onion dip during "Survivor." We are a big, happy, fat-craving bunch. But, oddly enough, when a luxurious fitness center opened nearby, we immediately signed right up.
Never having gone to a gym, I was shocked upon entering the locker room for the first time. Women of all ages and sizes paraded up and down the dressing area striking pose after pose as if they were working a runway. The ladies had towels, but they were draped over the arm rather than around the body, which is where the towel really becomes key.
Some chatted casually as they lounged on the benches, their untouched clothing piled next to them. It was like stepping into an Italian renaissance painting, only the stock bunches of grapes and goblets of wine had been replaced with MP3 players and bottles of water. Clearly, my plan of exclusively using the changing area to lock up my personal belongings was not universal. Eyes downward, I quickly put my coat in my locker and made my way out to the main part of the gym.
Advertisement
After 10 minutes of standing around, being intimidated by the exercise equipment, I seriously considered just going home. Then I remembered that my coat was still back in Club Risque. I could leave it there, I thought. It wasn't very cold outside. I didn't even particularly like that coat.
I peered down the hall to see a boxing class beginning and I bravely decided to try something new. My late entrance to the class required the instructor to take me off to the side, show me how to put on the hand wraps and gloves, and give me a quick lesson in the four punches utilized in class.
He then told all of us to pair up - one would work a punching bag and the other would hold it steady. I sidled up to a petite woman who didn't look capable of raising her heavy gloves above her waist, let alone punch the bag with any real force. My job of holding for her would be easy. When it was my turn, I'd definitely look a hundred times more powerful. The boxing instructor, sure to be seriously impressed, would probably want to train me for some professional bouts.
I smiled at my small partner right before she struck the punching bag with such a monstrous wallop that it flew into my chest causing my heart and lungs to vibrate.
"Hold it tighter," she ordered in a deep voice. I began to reconsider my brilliance in taking up a new sport at the ripe old age of 31. After working desperately to hold the bag steady for Miss Rocky Balboa, my own punches fell exhausted and limp upon the weighty, red canvas and I began to doubt my future as a pro boxer. When the instructor said it was time to spar alone with him in the center of the room, my title fight fantasies resurfaced in all of their magnificent glory. This was where I'd prove myself. This was where I'd triumph.
When it was my turn, I approached him like a dedicated bruiser. Although I barely connected with his mitts, I couldn't help but wonder if the crowd would chant my first or my last name when I entered the ring. I hesitated before each punch and flinched whenever he moved, but I believed he saw potential. He knew he was in the presence of a fighter with heart.
After my 60-second round with him, I was sweating like a convict on a chain gang in Alabama and decided that I would choose a light periwinkle for the color of my professional boxing trunks and robe. Irrational as it is, picturing myself as a future prizefighter gives me incredible confidence. When I don those boxing gloves twice a week at the gym I am herculean and I don't care if anyone thinks otherwise.
Perhaps the women in the locker room feel the same as they promenade the post-modern catwalks of New York, Paris and Milan in their minds. They feel ravishing and fabulous after another rigorous workout spent sculpting their bodies. They truly savor the aplomb they've earned with determination, dedication and sweat.
The gym is incredibly magical in that way. There we are all more than what meets the eye.
posted by Scott Fish at 3:09 PM
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