To pair up with our annual Love & Sex Issue, read NOW’s inaugural first-person sex blog.
[rssbreak]
As an adult, the only time I’d ever set foot in a gym was a decade ago and against my will – the result of a dinner invitation unfairly conditional on first working out at the club to which the host belonged.
Last year introduced a change of heart though, primarily due to mine being broken, and I decided to give the gym a second chance: an opportunity to get myself into better shape physically, coupled with the hope of recovering from the seemingly irreversible emotional recession I had sadly slipped into.
As I arrive, I’m greeted by the kind of pulsating pop music designed to inspire one to move, move, move however, the only movement I’m feeling is the sinking sensation in my stomach, my abs possessing all the muscular definition of an air sickness bag that’s just been filled.
While waiting to activate my membership, I look beyond the reception area and quickly size up the equipment in use. And by that I mean the men, not the machinery. Judging by their impressive physiques, it’s clear that some of these gents take this fitness business pretty seriously. I admire their discipline, respect their dedication, and find myself passing the time by playing a game normally reserved for the subway: if I could have sex with only one person here, who would it be?
With my membership activated, I realize there’s no turning back now. So I sign up for a series of six one hour sessions with a not yet assigned personal trainer, instantly fantasizing about his appearance. Will he most resemble Daniel Craig or Hugh Jackman? (Apparently an accent is mandatory.) It’s a week later when we meet for the first time, a bizarre variation on the blind date.
“Is he hot?” some of my friends inquire afterwards.
“He reminds me of my eldest nephew” I reply which for hopefully obvious reasons doesn’t make him at all sexually desirable to me.
“You should change to someone else then” I’m warned sternly and repeatedly. Reminding myself that distraction tends to lead to different results than motivation does, I wisely decide to ignore such advice.
Having put some considerable effort into my workout attire, I’m a bit disappointed when my first session is all about measurements and readings, starting with my blood pressure.
“Oh,” I hear my trainer utter from over my shoulder as 152 over 92 lights up the screen. I scan the diagnostic chart and instantly conclude that the next thing I’ll probably be measured for is a coffin.
We move to an office for further body measurements and an inevitable discussion about what I hope to achieve from working out.
“I wish to be flat and fit,” I offer with quiet enthusiasm. I’m actually thinking “I don’t want to die here” (or lonely, my heart not-so-gently moans).
“How much water do you drink?” he asks.
“Do wine and tea count?” I half-joke.
“Do you smoke?”
“Only socially or when I’m stressed,” I reply which lately means the only time I’m not smoking is when I’m asleep.
I’ve got my work cut out for me. I promise to drink more water, less wine and tea, and to somehow discourage myself from smoking. Little do I realize then but with all the trips I end up making to the bathroom from drinking so much damn water every day, I haven’t the time to smoke.
At my next session, I’m introduced to the exercise program that will eventually whip me into shape or send me to an early grave. I’m still alive at the end of the hour which I conclude to be an encouraging sign. The real test though will be when I attempt to run through my entire routine unsupervised on the weekend.
Arriving at a time on Saturday when I’m told it’s not extremely busy (meaning fewer witnesses) I make my way to the Elliptical machine. Setting the timer becomes a near-defeating challenge since I only want to warm up for five minutes but initially fail to notice that the minimal time setting is 10 minutes. Moments later my iPod battery dies on me. Could hitting a brick wall be the extent of my fitness capabilities?
It’s been almost a year now since my return to the gym. I’m amazed by my continued (albeit gradual) progress, and not just in the physical sense. Struggling through what initially felt like of one of the longest hours of my life inadvertently reminded me that just because something seems impossible at the time, it doesn’t mean it will be forever unachievable. And just as a body faced with challenges can strengthen with perseverance and effort, so too can a broken heart begin to mend. A healthy outlook and willingness to try out some new equipment make either inevitable.
