TouchedByMadness

Bare

Dear naked woman at the gym,

I can’t help but notice that all of the three times I’ve run into you, you’ve been naked. Yes, I realize that every time I’ve seen you we’ve been in the locker room, but still, you don’t find it odd that I’ve never seen you in a stitch of clothing?

I am also perceptive enough to have picked up on the fact that no matter how many other ladies are in the locker room, you choose to speak to me. The first time it was just us, so I didn’t think anything of it. But the last two times? There were other strangers to chat with. What’s up with that?

It could be because the last two times our lockers were practically next to each other. Do you recognize my green lock? Or do you always use the same locker and I’ve unwittingly picked your area both those times? I’ve started using the lockers on the other side of the room now. No offense. Just giving you space.

I have to admit I’m still confused by our last conversation. You said that normally you’d be wearing a bathing suit (I’ve never witnessed you in said suit, by the way), but the pool was closed. Ok . . . so why does the pool being off-limits necessitate nudity? Did you not bring any other exercise clothes? And what fitness routine did you plan to do in your disrobed state? Are you coming on to me, naked woman? I’m all for naked exercise, but in the privacy of my own home . . . with my boyfriend.

I want you to know that I do appreciate that you’re trying so hard to get my attention, but I’m not really ready to follow you back to your colony. Please understand. It’s not you, it’s me. I like pants.

Sincerely,
Stacey

Keep Moving Forward

“My clothes are all too big! I’ve lost twelve pounds since I’ve started exercising with my Wii Fit!”

“I fluctuate a lot. But all told, in the last several months I’ve lost a net of . . . um, four.”

“Well . . . you go to the gym. You’re probably just putting on a lot of muscle weight.”

It’s a good thing my goal is to have the ass of a Brazilian supermodel. Cause if it was weight-loss, I’d totally be discouraged. (I am making progress on the Brazilian supermodel thing though. I bought a bottle of self-tanning lotion. Brazilian supermodels don’t have pasty behinds.)

Ok, to be honest, I took about a month off from any serious fitness efforts. However, with the army prom thingy looming in the not-so-distant future, I’ve decided it’s time to get my decidedly un-Brazilian ass back to the gym. Because a.) I’d really like to fit into the clingy red dress without having to duct tape my thighs together, b.) I’d like to mitigate the effects of this disease I have whereby I instantly gain thirty pounds in photographs (it’s called “Photo Bloat” and it’s real. The Captain has it too), and c.) I’m still paying for the membership.

After my first couple days back, I remembered why I stopped going. My motivation is seriously lacking. I’m bored. I’d happily blame it on the fact that the televisions in the cardio room are perpetually set to ESPN, Fox News, and the Rachael Ray show, but something tells me that’s a cop out. So rather than piss and moan, I decided to try something different. Shake things up.

Oh boy.

I didn’t want to take things too far out of my comfort zone, so I began my workout on my favorite elliptical, #6.

When I first joined the gym, the trainer who gave me the tour explained to me this “favorite machine phenomenon.” I rolled my eyes and wondered how anyone could really think one treadmill was so much better than all the other identical treadmills. Losers. Now I pout if I see someone else on #6. In my defense, I fully understand that #6 works the same as the other ellipticals. However, from #6 I can see my reflection in the office windows across the way, where the blurriness creates the illusion that the poles to exercise my upper body are somehow attached to my thighs. Which means I spend my entire twenty minutes trying to jog myself out of my imaginary leg braces, mentally crying, “Run, Forrest, run!”

What? It’s a very emotional part of that movie.

Ahem.

Anyway, I thought to change things up a bit I would try the “x-train reverse” program. My sister has mentioned she does this and she has a body to die for, so I figure it’s got to be good.

For the first five minutes of the workout I jog forward as I normally would (Run Forrest!). Then it’s time to go backward.

Oh lord.

At this point I should pause to mention that it took me four days to coordinate moving my upper and lower body in sync walking forward. Backward was not pretty.

I decide it’s best to watch my feet, as if that alone is enough to keep me from falling off the machine and making a fool of myself. After ten seconds my thighs are already starting to burn and my body is freaking out trying to determine where the hell my center of gravity went. At the end of two minutes, it’s time to jog forward again.

Now I am completely fixated on the clock, wondering how long until I have to repeat that crazy backward business. The five minutes blow by and the machine instructs me to reverse. More burning, swearing, and trying my best not to fall down.

It’s only two minutes, I tell myself. Two minutes isn’t a long time.

The two minute mark comes and goes. I’m still in reverse mode.

Maybe it gets a little longer each time. I bet now it’s three minutes.

Three minutes go by. Then five.

Did I miss it? It must be time to go forward.

I’m gasping for air. I look at my reflection. I appear to be taking a casual stroll. And those polls on my legs? Might as well be a walker. Oh yeah. Bet I’m burning a hell of a lot of calories now.

Screw this.

For the last minute and a half I jog forward. I let out happy sighs when the machine beeps with my workout summary. I descend the elliptical trainer not so much by my own power, but by the force of gravity. I wonder if there’s a club rule against napping on the couches. My ass hurts.

And I still have the rest of my workout routine to go. Shit.

In conclusion: forward good, backward bad.

You’re welcome.

Reality Check

Me: So I’ve been working out for about a month now, but I don’t think I look any different. Do you think I look any different?

Him: It takes awhile to see results.

Me: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I mean, I have more energy and I know I’m getting stronger. But -

Him: But what? Those are results.

Me: Not visual results. Maybe my expectations are a bit much. I think I set unrealistic goals for myself.

Him: What’s your goal?

Me: To have the ass of a Brazilian supermodel.

Him: (stunned expression)

Me: Shooting too high?

Nips

So, about the gym.

The great thing about the gym is that I’m slowly getting in shape. The bad thing is I’ve been regularly traumatized by a series of awkward events. Yes, I have learned to cope with naked people, but only because they’ve stopped talking to me and none of them have turned out to be coworkers (so far).

Now that I’ve overcome my fear of public nudity (other people’s - you won’t catch me prancing bare-assed through the locker room), I thought it would be pretty smooth sailing. And for the most part it has been, until later this week.

The last couple visits I made, the gym was way more crowded than usual. As I’m not patient enough to wait around for equipment, I trotted up to the women’s only floor (which is typically pretty empty). I hate the women’s floor for one reason: The cardio equipment is directly across from a wall of mirrors. This bothers me because what few women do go upstairs are always on these machines, meaning I get a full twenty minutes of mentally comparing my body against theirs.

I know, I know. But I can’t help it! It’s that or watch Everybody Loves Raymond. Which is really the greater evil?

I’ve discovered that most of the women who choose to exercise near me are quite skinny. Like, half of their body weight is really their tapeworm skinny. I can count all of their ribs and most of their other bones skinny. At first I thought they come to the gym to bulk up, until I realized they spend the entire afternoon on the ellipticals.

I don’t want to be eating disorder thin, so I’m not spending my time wishing I look anything like them. Which is good. Unfortunately, next to these skeleton people my not-so-unfit frame makes me look like Old MacDonald’s prize cow. Which is bad.

It also led me to my most recent traumatic realization.

I was surreptitiously glaring at the bony woman on a nearby elliptical for making me feel like train-wreck body Brittany when I tried to cheer myself up by noting, “Well, I have ginormous boobs compared to her.” That’s when I noticed that the girls were bouncing. A lot. As I paused to ponder why my sports bra was failing me so miserably I came to realization number two.

“Gym member Stacey Willets, your headlights are on.”

Holy highbeams, Batman! What the hell?

My mind reeled. When had those attention-whores declared independence? Have they been greeting my trainer each time we’ve met? Do my male coworkers acknowledge me in the weights room because they’ve been getting the twin peaks salute?

Did you know there are not a lot of exercises that require you to keep your arms crossed over your chest?

So if anyone knows where I can find a Wii Fit cheap, please do tell. At the rate I’m going, I won’t be able to show my face at the gym by July.

Nekkid

I’m a painfully shy person, so it’s not unexpected that the gym locker room is a place of high anxiety for me. After exactly two days I discovered that not everyone shares my opinion on public nudity.

I was changing back into my work clothes when a woman appeared from the showers wearing a towel . . . on her head. The rest of her was air drying, I assume. It gave me a little shock as she was the first naked person I had ever encountered in a non-intimate setting (which coincidentally isn’t many more people).

This is where the Captain interjects, “Stacey, it’s a locker room. That’s pretty typical for a locker room.”

Yes, I understand it’s a locker room. Which is why after my initial surprise I realized that seeing naked people was something I’d have to become accustomed to.

But then the naked woman started talking to me.

Ok, you know what? I don’t care if prancing about bare-assed is completely acceptable in a locker room setting, it’s freaken weird when a naked stranger starts chatting you up. I mean, there I am wondering where to look. If I look away, will she think I’m offended by her cellulite? Will my averted eyes damage her self-esteem? So I try to be polite and make eye contact, but she’s moving around and then bends over and really, that I don’t need to see.

She continues chattering a mile a minute, blissfully unaware that I’m probably scarred for life, while I’m trying to act all natural like I’d totally join this woman’s nudist commune except I’m easily chilled or something. At this point I begin to consider the absurdity of it all. I don’t even know this woman’s name, yet I can tell you that she keeps things well-groomed and probably doesn’t color her hair unless she’s just covering grays.

This is typical? Really? Knowing the state of a stranger’s bikini line and possibly being able to identify her colon in a line up?

Typical? Perhaps. Awkward? Absolutely.

So, excuse me, naked woman at the gym? Call it one of my many neuroses, but while I’m glad you’re comfortable with your body, I’m not.

No offense.