My dirty used runners stick out
like a sore thumb. Pearly white Nikes
and jet black lulu lemons
prance their way around me as I try to hide behind the machines.
She can probably tell that my clothes don’t match and weren’t bought
from the Running Room or Lulu Lemon.
My t-shirt and faded black sweats come from Wal-Mart.
Classy Wal-Mart.
Because I didn’t feel like dropping a half day’s pay on a tank top that’ll only see sweat
and gym bags.
She can probably tell that I don’t invest
in my gym clothes
and can probably judge how much time
I put into this gym thing,
which is probably only a fraction
of her's.
I must look like an amateur. Reading the instructions
on the machines. Looking around for the buttons and gadgets.
It’s obvious I have no idea what I’m doing,
or even if I did,
I'm terribly far from my comfort zone.
I hope I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.
Or that I'm trying too less.
It would be awful if it was obvious I could push myself further but I'm not.
Push myself.
Push myself further?
This is called worrying
Stop it.
Worry.
Don't worry about that.
Stay in between trying too much and trying too less. The middle ground.
Blend in.
Discretely watch others while on the corner machine and
look like you're listening to your iPod.
Look like you’re ‘in the zone’
But don't be.
Watch how they press the 'quick start' button
Watch the crunches
The body bars
Learn.
Be a 'gymmer'.
But that girl
That girl over there.
In her bright fuchsia criss-cross back.
Her right off the shelf white trainers. Her hair
all sweat-swept
but perfectly held back by a seemingly heroic elastic.
She’s probably laughing at me
with that other girl
as they both power walk their way uphill on the treadmills. Arms pumping.
They both look.
At me?
The music pounds through the ear buds in my ears. I can't hear them.
I watch them
and turn my music down.
I lean back on the exercise ball to do sit-ups.
The music is turned down so I can tell if my body is making that rubbing fart noise,
which would be so embarrassing
if it was.
It's not. Phew.
Practically gym suicide.
Gym. Suicide. Interesting.
I don’t belong here. But I do.
It’s obvious I should be here. I suppose/
For my body.
I’m sure she’s already thinking that.
About me of course.
Am I sweating enough? Or am I sweating too much?
It’s like I have “Never been to a gym”
written all over my face.
