Mmmmmmmmmmmm

You know this wrestling suit? And how most dudes kind of layer them, because unless you look like this guy, the outlines are discouraging?



Well, an elderly gentleman was wearing one, and only one, in my gym today. Cell phone cameras are strictly prohibited at the 24 Hour Fitness, which is a great disappointment. This man was at least in his 70s, his suit was red, and it was a little stretched out. He wore Reeboks with no socks. He took those Reeboks off to stretch later, which is a whole different issue, but overshadowed by the wrestling suit.

When you're down to ONE item of clothing in a public place, you'd better hope it's a mascot costume.

Stairway to Nowhere

In my gym, there are two things you can count on: A woman doing fancy things on the Stairmaster, and The Rachel Zoe Project on the big screens.

This afternoon, Rachel was on (and I'm not sure how this is--even if I dash home and flick on Bravo, the show's always over. In the gym, it's marathon Rachel) and the empty Stairmaster was flanked by two extremely sweaty Masters, both cheating by riding the stairs all the way to the bottom before grabbing the handlebars and lugging themselves to the top at the last second. There were no fancy Masters in sight.

This might be my opportunity.

I've always been opposed to the Stairmaster, not just because I live in a hilly city and feel like my butt gets enough targeted exercise on my frequent trips to the grocery store, but, frankly, because it's hard as hell and I go to the gym to feel good about myself, not to be exhausted after five minutes. But I just finished a book in which an idiot secondary character is always on a Stairmaster, so it was on my mind, and my realization of the fancy Masters is a new thing, too. If Janice could do it, so could I.

I guess I should explain the fancy Masters, since it had never occurred to me that one could do anything on the machine other than climb. These women--invariably in their early 20s--can walk sideways on the Stairmaster. Sometimes they do squats, or take the stairs two at a time. What's really eye-catching, though, is the arabesque. They're always doing Stairmaster arabesques.

Show-offs.

The first step of a Stairmaster is about two feet off the ground, which isn't that big of a deal, except that the machine starts to move as soon as you mount it, so it's two feet you fall down when the stairs slip from under you because you're obviously still more engrossed in untangling your iPod headphones than assuming the solid object you're standing on can't be counted on. I'm not sure anyone saw me do that.

I did a little running start to get on the next time, trotting up to the top step quickly and trying to figure out which buttons I needed to push to get a good pace going before I ended up at the bottom again. The woman next to me started heavily sighing and making a big show of craning her neck around me--my head was blocking The Rachel Zoe Project.

I, of course, was pumped that I'd have the distraction of Rachel and her cronies while wrestling with my most hated machine. But as soon as I looked up at the screen, I stumbled. I should have known. I'm always trying to read the newspaper or the mail while walking up the stairs to my apartment, and always trip by the third landing. There's no way, even at a consistent pace (and I had chosen the "interval" setting), to not fall on this thing. Plus, the stairs are designed for women with maybe a size 5 foot. Mine are almost 9s. The arabesque girls must be en pointe during their workouts.

So I spent ten minutes clutching the railings for dear life as I lugged my way up (allegedly) 52 flights of stairs. That's really the only satisfying number you get out of a Stairmaster. I mean, ten minutes of cardio, while more than the average American gets in a day, is still ten minutes less than what you're supposed to do if you exercise daily (which I don't, unless you count the grocery store hill). The "calories burned" number, which I know is bullshit but still check at the end of my workout, was 145, which is the approximate calorie count of this pile of Mother's chocolate chip cookies I have laying on my stomach while I write. But 52 flights? In ten minutes? I mean, I could maybe be a firefighter with that number.

Except, of course, that when I was done I had to leap off the thing because I really, truly thought I might vomit and didn't see how I could possibly handle the cool-down. (Why do they even program cool-downs into the machinery? Isn't walking to the locker room a cool-down?) I'll give this to the Stairmaster Corporation: For all they don't prepare you to mount the machine, they really have the dismount covered. There are elaborate directions about how to get off the machine posted right where you spend all your time staring intently: right above your feet. I had the whole thing memorized after those ten minutes--including the warning about how the last step disappears two feet above the floor. Good tip.

I was a lot safer retreating to the stretching space, where, in the mirror, I watched a very large woman climb BACKWARDS up the Stairmaster. Never again.

PS Oops. Just ate two more cookies.

SUPER TIMES!

Most of my enjoyment from going to classes at the gym stems from my need for constant recognition. I take a real pride at being the instructor's pet. There just aren't enough opportunities to prove your excellence in the real world. There's no equivalent of getting an A. If you do well at your job, it feels good for a while, and then usually that's followed by resentment because you feel like you've earned a promotion and a raise.

So the only way to prove my worth in the immediate term is to attend classes at 24 Hour Fitness and outperform everyone. I'm not particularly strong (I joined because I hit a wall--I couldn't open a jar), but I'm persistent. And when adults are told by an instructor that they can stop whenever they want, or reduce their weight, or do fewer reps, MOST OF THEM DO. (What are they paying for?) So I win the contest I'm holding in my own mind simply by good-naturedly finishing with good form. The bar is low.

I've been to only one class at this particular location so far. It's called 24 Lift, which is 24 Hour Fitness' branded way of saying it's a weightlifting class. The instructor's name is Richard, which I know because 24 Hour Fitness has a whiteboard at the front: the equivalent of a big "HI, MY NAME IS..." tag. All of the instructors use a green marker, and it looks like someone accidentally bought a wet-erase instead of a dry-erase board, and no one's done anything about it. It took me two class attendances to read Richard's name.

So, anyway, I know Richard's name, but he doesn't know mine. I know he appreciates my dedication to ensuring that all my squats are the FULL three seconds, because he catches my eye in the mirror and (I wholeheartedly believe) smiles approvingly. Most people in the class get verbal recognition, even though I'm fairly certain none of them are trying quite as hard to please as I am. Furthermore, it's my suspicion that Richard actually knows very few names--and who's to correct him? For all of class, he's calling out, "Great work, Erin!" "Good job, Helen!" But if no one in the class knows the name of anyone else in the class, and if no one ever reacts to their name being called out, who's to know? Richard comes off as personable and encouraging, and maybe everyone works a little bit harder. Imagine how well I'D perform if I had the chance of being verbally rewarded for sticking out the entire "Challenge" exercise!

Yeah, I'm onto him.

There are always a few things that are hard to figure out when you try out a new class. I've belonged to a gym and have been going to classes for most months of the last ten years, so the fact that it's hard to really understand the exact words of the instructor through his headset, layered with the dance mix of a Pink song (no one ever just pops in Jock Jams anymore) isn't usually an issue. It's kind of like watching What Not To Wear on mute. You think you might know how to read lips, but that's just because it's all a bunch of blather and you pick up the important stuff because it's the same every time.

But instructors, like news anchors, have to have a gimmick. Richard's, I thought for about an hour, was, "SUPER TIMES!" What he's really saying is, "Two more times!," which comes up a lot in a class that's basically about exerting yourself for eight counts at a time. This also means that while everyone's dropping off by the time we get to the last two reps, I do my snort laugh and the momentum of that practically lifts the bar for me.

Richard does have his downside. I think he cheats. He has real problems counting to eight. He often skips "one." And that means that I'm torn between completing the set (as I know he, and God, want me to do) and staying with the rhythm of the class. And he adds in all those little lost single seconds on occasions to hold a single (always uncomfortable) position for eight counts, because first he uses about two seconds to explain that we'll count to eight, and then (THEN! The most infuriating thing one could do to one who is straining under weight), at three, stops to interject, "Almost there!"

He's just being mean.

But, since he's the only one in the room with any right to judge me, and I so desperately want him to approve of my performance, I just smile knowingly. He can't crack this one.