Work out woes

It’s Monday, also known as the first and inevitably last day of my “new week, new me” diet and exercise plan. Considering I ate Chipotle twice on Saturday and a whole pizza on Sunday (banking on the fact that I was going to workout today), I can’t back out now. It seems as though all dietary, health and hygienic standards are non-existent on the weekends. OPINIONS_ROTATOR

When was the last time I showered? If it was too recently then I’m wasting a perfectly good shower by sweating, but if it was too long ago then I’m not acceptable to even be seen in public. I know it’s just the gym, but when your gym is in the center of campus you have to consider the risks. No, I am not putting on make-up. That is where I draw the line. Well, okay, maybe just a little cover-up on this zit. I can’t remember the last time I shaved my legs so I’ll be wearing leggings.

Once I finally make it to the gym I head straight to the treadmill and ease myself in with a nice leisurely walk, praising myself for even leaving my apartment to be here. I put my headphones in and play my pump up playlist. I’m convinced that 99 percent of the reason I workout is to listen to pump up music and feel empowered and fit while slowly losing 40-something calories going about five mph on the treadmill for like 15 minutes. But man do I feel alive during that quarter of an hour.

Then it happens, the dreaded headphone cord drop. No one really knows the cause, but at least in my head, the effect is detrimental. My headphones pull out of my ear and my phone crashes onto the treadmill and flies off the back at a whopping five mph. Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool. Did anyone see me? Yes. At this point you either get back on and act like your face is red because of your intense workout or leave. So I leave.

I decide to head over to the weight room, praying for it to be empty. Oh nope, good, the entire football team and their grandmothers are in there. The last quality I maintain while working out is socialness. I do not want to see anyone while I am at the gym. I could see Brad Pitt while I’m working out, and I would walk the other way and avoid eye contact. If there is sweat covering more than 40 percent of my body, please do not come over to me and start a conversation.

I head over to the free weights, grab a couple of 10 lbs and sit next to the half man, half hulk lifting about the weight of a car with his pinky. It’s OK though because we’re both breaking the same amount of sweat. I do approximately three repetitions of who knows how many, because I lost count while watching the veins pop out of this guy’s arms, and then I call it quits.

I walk past a man in his late 40s at least, and I’m impressed that this professor or faculty member has enough confidence to workout in front of students half his age and at peak physical shape, myself excluded.

Empty studio rooms are my best friends. They allow me to do my ab workout in private so that the whole gym won’t have to witness me shake uncontrollably while attempting a 30 second plank. The studios also have ceiling to floor mirrors that make it socially acceptable to stare at yourself for long periods of time without being too self absorbed.

While it seems as though I’ve been here for ages, I check my phone and it’s been a good 30 minutes. I tell myself I have to hold out for at least another 10 minutes because I’m convinced the people who checked me in will remember how long I’ve been here and judge me. I do a couple more pencil stretches and then head out. My workout is complete.

Every time I go to the gym I’m usually consumed with thoughts such as these, but when I really think about it, no one cares. No one cares what I’m wearing, whether I’m walking or sprinting on the treadmill, whether I lift 20 pounds or 200 pounds, or if I can do a 30 second plank or a three minute plank. I know this to be true because I never notice these things about anyone else. We are too focused on our own insecurities to even notice someone else’s and this is especially true at the gym. So, workout or don’t workout, no one cares anyway.

Sam Miner can be reached at mine0034@stthomas.edu