usual, I'm sipping at that pathetic
water fountain. I turn around and
there he is: Former hook-up who
shall not be named. We smile, sidestep
-- no, other sidestep -- around
each other. We say our "Hey what's
up how are you see you later" and
continue on in separate orbits of the
weights, the treadmill, the mats.
I'm wearing one of his T-shirts.
I thank my lucky stars that he
didn't call me out for sporting the
shirt I never returned. Oh well, I
think to myself, stepping on to the
dreaded elliptical. Two weeks ago
he was supposed to be The One,
but all I got was this lousy T-shirt.
They should make a generic Walk of
Shame shirt that says "I slept over,
but all I got was this lousy shirt," I
think as I scroll through my iPod.
Whichever of my chakras governs
awkwardness must be totally
aligned; I just escaped far too easily.
I'm afraid my gym-karma is now in
the red because of this. And I'm
afraid of the elliptical because it gives
me time to think about things like
"gym-karma."
The gym is one of the most poignant
microcosms of a Dartmouth
existence, in my opinion. In fact,
it's a Petri dish inside the already
slimy bubble of our College experience.
Alumni Gym is the one place
on campus that encompasses the
complete range of our daily agony
and ecstasy: It has gender-relations
issues to rival Beta and AZD and
enough sexual tension to top First
Floor Berry. The facetime in the air
is thick enough to suffocate even
pre-10aCollis.
Although the gym is the ultimate
place to see and be seen, no one
actually wants to be seen there. We
all want to appear fi t, ripped, toned
-- or whatever the adjective du
jour -- but we don't want to own up
to the vanity that drives us to these
absurd machines. What on earth
is a hip-abductor, anyway? And has
anyone ever complimented anyone
on their fi rmly abducted hips? Only
gym-rats, I suppose.
The gym is a place many of us go
daily, though I doubt anyone actually
enjoys it. Sure there's the endorphin
rush and the sense of accomplishment
that will come when I cross the
fi nish line on this little landscape of
fl ashing lights. While recapping my
day at least I'll have "I went to the
gym" to help clot the hemorrhage
of self-loathing. Right?
Right. There are 37 minutes left,
78 calories burned so far. I need
something to read. I need a good
solid dose of "Us Weekly" and Britney's
antics to keep me occupied.
Without distraction, the gym can
devolve rapidly into an existential
panic: I am spending 45 minutes
on a human hamster wheel while
watching VH1, and tomorrow I will
get up and do it again. This is my
life?
To make matters worse, my English
professor is pounding it out on
a treadmill behind me, going about
three times as fast as I ever could.
Her presence reminds me that I
should be trying to fi nish "Mrs.
Dalloway" instead of "Us Weekly,"
but one musn't read Virginia Woolf
on the elliptical -- that's straight-up
suicidal.
Meanwhile, my "calories burned"
are moving slower than Britney's last
brain cells. Things could be worse, I
suppose. At least I didn't lose custody
of my children to some dirty K-Fed.
Yet.
Alumni Gym even has its own
geography of gender relations.
For some reason, when entering
the gym, the free weights on the
left-hand side are the homeland of
the hard guys, while the right side
is frequented by the geriatrics and
anorexics. This must be due to the
halo effect of the bench presses on
the left, I think. Whatever the cause,
the left side is quite clearly a maledominated
space. I need a beer. No?
No one?
I'm afraid my gym-karma is out of
whack. The panic gets bad. I'm afraid
this tiny girl next to me is going to
elliptical herself into a snapped limb.
I'm afraid of those creatine thugs;
they've gotten so huge their own
mothers wouldn't recognize them.
I'm afraid of the narcissists who
fawn about in front of the mirrors,
"stretching." I'm afraid I've been
known to "stretch," from time to
time.
Since it's so frigid outside, the
gym really is in full swing. The
snow globe of bodies orbiting in
commiseration is worse, of course,
during the ominous Busy Time. I
always chuckle when I see that fl yer
advertising treadmill reservations.
"Have you ever tried to get on a
treadmill during The Busy Time?"
Oh, no. Anything but The Busy
Time!
I still have 15 minutes to go on
this awful elliptical, and "Us Weekly"
is barely pulling me through. Flipping
though the pages, it occurs to
me that I should really just pick up
an addiction. I've been looking for
something to do with my off-term
anyway, and I bet the "Promises"
rehab center has a beautiful gym.
I bet there's no Busy Time there,
either.
