So I’ve started the going-to-the-gym thing. It’s a perk at my school I can’t turn down now that I’ve ballooned to mini Godzilla-like proportions.
The gym is a small room with no windows and virtually zero ventilation, so it constantly stinks of hormones and oniony B.O. Every time I’ve been, there have been a handful of teenagers — primarily boys who seem to go in order to lift a few weights, pose and preen in a mirror, pant a little, and sit on an exercise bike for twenty minutes — and the occasional obsessively fit staff or faculty member.
The kid at the check-in desk with his curly, floppy hair and his lazy eyes pretends like adults who come in don’t exist. The students who attempt to bypass the desk, however, wake him up from whatever blankety-blank is going on in his head. He suddenly switches into the role of College Gym Check-In Gestapo, demanding to see or hold picture ID’s, as if the kids coming in are actually able to steal or really abuse the ridiculously elaborate, heavy equipment there.
Speaking of, I don’t know how to use the majority of the equipment at the gym. Everything’s set like a Rube Goldberg machine, so elaborate and difficult despite the simplicity of the actual function. I tend to gravitate to the treadmills since I understand what the intent is. Setting the damned things, on the other hand, is beyond my gym-illiterate comprehension. I like brisk walks or jogs going uphill, but trying to get it to the perfect “uphill” or speed setting is akin to starting up DOS. I do my best to follow the directions the digitized, blocky red text commands issue me, but apparently, I choose the wrong buttons and the whole damned thing restarts itself. I keep expecting the thing to, one day, read, “YOU. ARE. AN. IMBECILE. GET. THE. HELL. OFF. ME. BEFORE. I. CALL. CHECK. IN. GESTAPO.”
I have since figured out that “Quick Start” is the easiest, and truest, function out of all of them.