My ‘local’ here is the newest, biggest and probably the least populated gym I have been in so far. It has an amazing view of Independence Monument from the treadmills and crosstraining machines and a weight machine for every muscle you can think of and probably a few you’d forgotten you had. The ‘personal trainer’ rattles around the huge room waiting for someone to look confused or possibly just stunned at all the equipment. There are two weights floors, each with their own set of attendants who are actively trying to look busy or at least trying to look like they are not spending the whole day watching one of the 10 televisions on each level. Most days I like having the gym to myself. After years of being at the gym for someone else, years of answering questions and dishing advice (always of the solicited variety of course!) I usually prefer to be an antisocial gym goer. You see I like to work out with emphasis on the work part and sometimes it hurts and sometimes I am out of breath and sometimes I am just trying really hard not to fall over.
Speaking of falling over the other day I was reading older posts on a blog (Paradise lost in translation)I read regularly when I came across a gym confession that made me smile. The blogger (sorry I don’t know your name) recalled falling off the treadmill at the gym in front of some rather more sedate gym goers who were no doubt smugly thinking ‘Yep knew that was coming’ as they strolled carefully trying not to break a sweat.
I have had to rein in my fears a bit since we moved to the tropics and the idea of heaving a slimy, sticky body around humid, dusty, rubbish filled streets lost its appeal. I have conquered the treadmill demons...well on a Monday and a Friday anyway.