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It’s not every day that a girl gets to hang out with the town’s local muscle mania. This morning I decided to accompany my husband to the gym. He did warn me beforehand that it is not at all like the virgin active back home. I didn’t care much- how bad could it be- a gym is a gym is a gym. It is, matter of fact, a place where you go to get sweaty and smelly. So really, how bad could it be?
Virgin active has recently opened a brand new branch close to our home in Pretoria. I joined enthusiastically; and looked forward to getting slim and trim in style. Then came the whole “move to Uitenhage for three months”- thing. Small towns don’t have large luxury gyms. They do have gyms though- gyms full of character and well, filled with characters. Yes, sirree, LOTS of character(s).
Picture this: A large automatic revolving door. Diva dressing rooms with hairdryers. Shiny, polished porcelain tiled floors. Wallpaper of some exotic island. Full length windows with a view onto the golf course, wild life and a stream. State of the art equipment: and I mean each piece of equipment is an art piece, stately elegant. Two blue swimming pools. Fresh coffee and healthy smoothies at the cafeteria cum café. Chrome chairs. A lot of modern lighting. High ceilings. Smartly dressed and proportionately shaped assistants. Big city life… what bliss!
So this morning we stop in front of a revamped house. The entrance doesn’t look all that bad but it gives new meaning to the proverb “don’t judge a book by its cover”. The cover design of this book must’ve cost more than the contents. This book ain’t worth the read. But we go in anyway (for where else can we go?). The receptionist is not half as gorgeous as the lady at Virgin. This one has real ugly teeth, a mullet, unshaven and untrimmed- He engages in some chitchat with my husband from behind bars. I’m not quite sure why the bars are there since it doesn’t look like there’s much to steal, but it definitely reminds me of one of those movie scenes where the prisoner talks from behind bullet proof glass. Honestly, this guy looks more like an escaped convict. This feels more like the beginning of a horror movie (okay, I am exaggerating- that’s what authors do).
Now the question is: where to begin? Do I start warming up on the treadmill- and which one? There is about half a dozen treadmills standing on the one side. All are different models. The cheap types you can buy on TV. Or should I rather start with the circuit? I decide to start with cardio since two men already crowd the circuit and the weights’ section, both staring at me. (jaws dropping). As surprised to see me as I am to see them. You see, I’m not quite sure how many women frequent this gym. It cannot be a lot judging by their shocked expressions. And I, in turn, do not often feel as if I am on the set of Police Academy. The one male, an african with big black eyes, a coloured headband and really skinny body is mechanically doing ab curls. The other man is big and sturdy (bulky?) with a face full of wrinkles, wearing glasses and a grey everything-on matching outfit (and I mean socks, shirt, shorts, even his hair). Yep, I’ll definitely start elswhere.
Loud ka-boom ka-boom music plays over the only cheap speaker hammered into the wall. The rest of the room is painted red and blue. Tacky. There is a mirror covering one section of the wall littered with stuck up copied papers of muscle groups, insurance adverts and life policies (that’s funny). In the one corner a few spinning bikes look very out of place. Two exercise balls and a platform for aerobics classes stand neglected in the opposite corner. The room doubles as aerobics classroom and cardio section. It smells unhygienic and old. Everything feels sticky and adhesive plastic covers all the machines touch panels. Gross.
Funny thing though, that even here in inhumane conditions -no pampering and polish- I felt human. In the grand gym with all its frills and fuss, I feel more like a number. A number that better pay up every month or else… The pitch up-, pay up- and shut up- system. Everything plastic fantastic… So, perhaps where we are at might not be gorgeous or grand but at least the owner knows your name and you know him because what you see is what you get. No façade, just a fat load of ugly.
Virgin active has recently opened a brand new branch close to our home in Pretoria. I joined enthusiastically; and looked forward to getting slim and trim in style. Then came the whole “move to Uitenhage for three months”- thing. Small towns don’t have large luxury gyms. They do have gyms though- gyms full of character and well, filled with characters. Yes, sirree, LOTS of character(s).
Picture this: A large automatic revolving door. Diva dressing rooms with hairdryers. Shiny, polished porcelain tiled floors. Wallpaper of some exotic island. Full length windows with a view onto the golf course, wild life and a stream. State of the art equipment: and I mean each piece of equipment is an art piece, stately elegant. Two blue swimming pools. Fresh coffee and healthy smoothies at the cafeteria cum café. Chrome chairs. A lot of modern lighting. High ceilings. Smartly dressed and proportionately shaped assistants. Big city life… what bliss!
So this morning we stop in front of a revamped house. The entrance doesn’t look all that bad but it gives new meaning to the proverb “don’t judge a book by its cover”. The cover design of this book must’ve cost more than the contents. This book ain’t worth the read. But we go in anyway (for where else can we go?). The receptionist is not half as gorgeous as the lady at Virgin. This one has real ugly teeth, a mullet, unshaven and untrimmed- He engages in some chitchat with my husband from behind bars. I’m not quite sure why the bars are there since it doesn’t look like there’s much to steal, but it definitely reminds me of one of those movie scenes where the prisoner talks from behind bullet proof glass. Honestly, this guy looks more like an escaped convict. This feels more like the beginning of a horror movie (okay, I am exaggerating- that’s what authors do).
Now the question is: where to begin? Do I start warming up on the treadmill- and which one? There is about half a dozen treadmills standing on the one side. All are different models. The cheap types you can buy on TV. Or should I rather start with the circuit? I decide to start with cardio since two men already crowd the circuit and the weights’ section, both staring at me. (jaws dropping). As surprised to see me as I am to see them. You see, I’m not quite sure how many women frequent this gym. It cannot be a lot judging by their shocked expressions. And I, in turn, do not often feel as if I am on the set of Police Academy. The one male, an african with big black eyes, a coloured headband and really skinny body is mechanically doing ab curls. The other man is big and sturdy (bulky?) with a face full of wrinkles, wearing glasses and a grey everything-on matching outfit (and I mean socks, shirt, shorts, even his hair). Yep, I’ll definitely start elswhere.
Loud ka-boom ka-boom music plays over the only cheap speaker hammered into the wall. The rest of the room is painted red and blue. Tacky. There is a mirror covering one section of the wall littered with stuck up copied papers of muscle groups, insurance adverts and life policies (that’s funny). In the one corner a few spinning bikes look very out of place. Two exercise balls and a platform for aerobics classes stand neglected in the opposite corner. The room doubles as aerobics classroom and cardio section. It smells unhygienic and old. Everything feels sticky and adhesive plastic covers all the machines touch panels. Gross.
Funny thing though, that even here in inhumane conditions -no pampering and polish- I felt human. In the grand gym with all its frills and fuss, I feel more like a number. A number that better pay up every month or else… The pitch up-, pay up- and shut up- system. Everything plastic fantastic… So, perhaps where we are at might not be gorgeous or grand but at least the owner knows your name and you know him because what you see is what you get. No façade, just a fat load of ugly.
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You might not be where you want to be. You might feel stuck in some rundown gym where the practice session is long over… OR You might have it all, yet still feel lost; lonely… feeling caught in a gilded cage.
Get to know HIM- before the golden thread is cut and there be water in the cistern no more… in the end, what counts is not the gym nor the equipment, but your fitness level. Your fitness level makes you endure. The gym and equipment is a means to an end -perseverance, long suffering, trials and tribulations- ah, the wonderful and the weird “gyms” that toughen us up to run this race set before us.
