Filed under: MyFitness
The first gym I belonged to was in Houston. I’d just graduated from college, and moved back in with my mom. I was unemployed, and I was totally kicking butt doing Weight Watchers. Before it was all through, I’d lose 70 pounds all together. Working out — pretty much 6 days a week — was a bit part of my weight-loss success (such as it was).
The gym was in a strip mall, and I got to know the place, with its thin grey carpeting and bright flourescent lights, very very well. When I’d walk in, the employees on duty would just nod at me in recognition — there was no need for me to show my membership card. Then, I’d hop on my exercise machine of choice — the mighty Stairmaster — and, often, say hello to the folks to my left and right, many of whom I knew from many hours of side-by-side sweaty toil. I loved it. And when, months into my routine, I was invited to go running — something that scared me to death (me? a runner?) — I was able to run a full 3 miles without stopping. The Stairmaster had trained me well.
It was also here, and at another location, where I graduated from circuit training and learned about free weights. Somewhere along the way, I started dating a hot, muscular, long-haired guy. He’d skate around at street festivals bare-chested with his pet snake around his neck. (I’ve always had a thing for bad boys.) He taught me a lot about proper form in weight lifting. (I still feel bad that I broke his heart.)
I love the gym. It’s a refuge. A place to focus on myself and my body. Since that first gym, I’ve been a member of bare-bones gyms and top-of-the-line health clubs. Now, thanks to all your encouragement, I’m seriously looking at another type of gym — one with child care. I’m psyched. I plan to go tomorrow, and take the boy, so we can both try out the facilities. Hubby will probably join us, too. This will just be a free three-day trial, but it might just turn into something wonderful.
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