Gym Junkie

I go to a gym regularly (2-3 times a week, most weeks). I am no gym junkie, I have no svelte toned body, I don’t look like I go to the gym. I am just not that interested in dying soon, and as I like to drink a lot and enjoy good food, I thought the only option I have really is to go to a gym to get a bit of exercise.

At the moment I am working in the inner suburbs for the first time in my life and not the CBD I crave. I am also driving to work for the first time too, previously I journeyed on the tram, the train or the bus. This traveling time was my time to do nothing at all except stare out the window and make up stories, to observe and critique my fellow travellers and to join in the camaraderie of that small group of people – nose to armpit, bottom to face – that brave bunch of men and women – brakes, what brakes - who climb abroad the Sydney public transport juggernaut everyday.

There was the sound track too, my intimate sound track, a new record I’m getting to know or an old favourite reminding me of why I liked it so much, and when I was feeling optimistic, the risk taking of the shuffle on that mp3 I love too much to part with, the one that I have so many albums on, that even now I have to stop sometimes and say – who the hells is this.

My stories are usually adventures, I am the star, and they vary in location and theme - drama, action, comedy, suspense, tragedy, romance - sometimes when I’m so engrossed in the adventure of these stories, I might not get off and continue to ride the buses all day just so I can continue my tales. Sometimes the sad ones are so sad tears may fall from my face for these imaginary characters in these imaginary stories – I miss this.

I am not fond of my morning / evening commute though its 25 minutes in the AM and 15-20 minutes in the PM. There is a bus I can easily walk to that travels straight to my work but in a wiggly fashion, it was taking up to 50 minutes each time when it actually bothered to get around to turning up, bus timetables are indeed the stuff of myth and legend in this town, creative yet optimistic, hopeful but mostly tinged with disappoint and despair. So logic outweighed my need for that staring out the window daydream time that I need, I liked and I so looked forward to and the sensible side said drive.

Yes, my sensible side, please meet my sensible side, bain of my existence, SS is a fitting acronym for my sensible side. I don’t like my sensible side (SS), it dominates me and my actions more than I would like. It wont even let me have a good cry, my eyes water, I start to sniffle, I start to build up a good head of boo hoo steam, ready for the long haul red puffy eyed cry, when the SS jumps up smacks me on the nose and says sternly, “oh get over yourself ya feckin eejit (with accent), stop being so stupid and pull yourself together.”

I virtually pass my gym on the back street drive to work each day, and as now I am in an environment that allows (doesn’t notice) freedoms that I don’t often find anywhere else expect in Consultancy companies, I’ve been disappearing out at lunch for the 105 minutes it takes to drive to the gym, exercise, shower and drive back.

This has given me a different view on the people that go during the day on a normal working day, as I am usually an evening gym-er. There is one lady I see regularly now, and she fascinates me, I find myself staring at her for the entire time she is on the treadmill, I’ve only ever seen her on the treadmill.

She is not young, nor attractive, she has no outstanding features of height, weight, presence or personality, she is of a non-descript ethnic origin, I’ve never heard her speak. I know nothing about her nor is there anything that would make her stand out in a crowd if we where on the street rather than sweating in the cardio room. What catches my eye and intrigues me is the attire, she exercises regularly, on the treadmill, in jeans and flat shoes.

My mind shouts – fool stupid woman, what are you doing, I stiffled a giggle of you cant be serious the first time I saw her. Then I thought, maybe she doesn’t sweat – so I got angry with jealously, I come from hearty pale skin celtic stock; we sweat like pigs. It took me a few visits before I started to think, maybe she’s poor and cant afford sneakers and gym cloths, though my natty new outfit was from Best & Less and cost all of $18.75. I started to feel some empathy for her, then ye olde SS piped up, “she is at a gym, stupid, that’s $40+ a fortnight, she is not poor”, good point SS, that mustn’t be it then.

She arrives on foot, maybe she is working at one of the nearby factories and pops out during lunch like I do and cant bring a change of clothes, but then I think that would start to get pretty yucky in the girlie bits in the afternoon wouldn’t it, as denim doesn’t exactly breathe?

Maybe it’s a cultural thing; maybe they don’t exercise in gym clothes in the place where she comes from, I wonder were that place is. Maybe there is a religious reason for it, but I can’t think of what sort of religion would be that silly, no scrap that, I can think of lots.

She doesn’t really need to exercise as she is very slim, her treadmill seems to never go beyond a smart saunter, so maybe she works near by and has nothing else to do at lunchtime except go to the gym hoping someone would start talking to her and she could make some friends.

Maybe maybe maybe

Maybe I should just say hello next time.

Listening: King Hokum
Reading: What I Loved – Siri Hustvedt