The One-Month Crunch

Until a month ago, there was only one time I regularly went to a gym: that was what I call “The Summer I Worked Out.”

My motive was admittedly suspect. At twenty years old, I was in my first ever real relationship, and my boyfriend was very different from the dorky, dark, artsy types I usually liked. He was tall, all-American, and into things like money, finance, sports, working out, and anime (okay, so he was also a little dorky). I felt soft and squishy and self-conscious, and started going to the gym; after we split up, I continued going. A friend from the dorms showed me how to do weights, and I remember seeing in the mirror one day that my upper arms looked stronger, leaner. …I don’t remember why I stopped working out.

To be fair, there was another time in my life that I joined a gym: it was in Brooklyn, a couple years ago, when my husband and I were still living there. It was a financial commitment, and a bit overwhelming, but I had two different gym buddies lined up—I felt optimistic about going regularly. Instead, I went sporadically, and then not at all. I became another statistic, joining a gym into which I barely step foot.

Recently, my weight peaked and I panicked. I started recording what I was eating, and jumping rope. Then I scooped a $39 Groupon for a one-month membership to Crunch gym. And I went. A lot. After all, I do work best with deadlines.

From the past month:

Strange that some humans today have to stretch and tone and challenge their bodies with large, plastic, whirring machines. It reminds me of cartoon images of hell where people are stuck doing the same motion over and over, ad infinitum.

It’s weird to use a combination lock again. Nobody is actually looking at me as I change in the locker room. My earplugs jump out of my ears when I run on the treadmill. I can’t run on the treadmill for very long. Stairmaster kicks my butt. I don’t understand the heart rate monitor—apparently for “weight burn” I have to go slower, longer. Thank God for music. Some people have their towels draped over their screens. There is a punching bag at one location that I wish desperately I knew how to use. I watch personal trainers with their clients so that I can steal ideas. I completely make up moves with five pound weights. I still don’t really know how to do a crunch correctly. I still do stretches I learned in acting class, in college. My work-out clothes get really sweaty. I understand why gym bags exist. I wish I had plastic flip-flops for the shower. And I absolutely love the sauna, though I don’t understand why there are saunas in gyms.

Since my panic this winter, I have lost ten pounds and dropped a pants size. I have even conquered my battle with sweets by committing to only eating one sweet thing a day. [Edit: Untrue. The battle continues.] I am going to try to work out regularly with a friend who has a gym in her building. We start tomorrow.

And soon it will be spring, and I will be able to jump rope or jog outside… or hey, maybe play basketball. (Strange but true: I love basketball. The image at the top of this blog is a little boy in mid-air, shooting a free-throw.)

And to the Crunch employee who keeps calling, hoping to persuade me to join: I got exactly what I wanted from you, and I don’t need anything else right now. The one-month crunch is over.

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