XLVII. Gym'n Like a Villain -

Post-graduation I knew I wanted to join a gym and be that young adult in her early twenties that I always pictured myself to be: Living in New York City (the five boroughs), going to school in Manhattan (Columbia - not medical school but I’m working on it), and working out -

Please refer to (1:56 - 2:56) of this video:



As mentioned in previous posts, it was relatively easy to keep in shape, albeit - unhealthily, while I was away at college: I never wanted to stay in my room and I hardly ever ate.

My two weeks at home before graduation I was quite literally a balloon - my deflated body was filling up and muscle was non-existent.

After the first two days at the gym, nausea and then hardcore cardio, my bones suddenly began to surface once more. Only this time it was as if the multicolored Flinstones vitamins I used to ingest as a kid was also resurfacing.

That is to say, my face was pigmented, no longer pale, my body no longer malnourished. This time the act of eating food was at the forefront. Food: That which has the magical prowess of allotting those tangible units of measurement, namely ‘calories’.

The idea of my parents spending money was the enabler that forced me to go to the gym every weekday and make that trek by bus and walking, through the rain if need be, to the gym.

Now, it seems like the enabler is myself.

I come home, feeling aches and pains in the seemingly most random of places, (my neck). Coming home to this feeling makes me never want to step into that gym again. Despite this truism, after that much effort is expended at the gym, I cannot imagine eating some unnecessarily unhealthy and tasty snack undoing all of the work put in.And so, my day passes by healthily and after a week of such days I feel like I’m thriving.

This is not the thriving equivalent Olympic athlete status.

This is the thriving equivalent of someone shedding past burdens and moving forward fruitfully.

As much as I detest work-out paraphernalia, (racerback tanks made of 90% spandex and 10% nylon, headbands, crazy sneakers), they do help make a work-out far more conducive.

Unlike like dance where costume is part of the art, wearing something to emphasize the techniques of spinning and leggings to help emphasize the extension of the leg that is so integral to the choreography, such work-out wear is more psychological.

Work-out wear allows you to strut around the gym’s perimeter without a care because you are officially legit.

For me the above is quite simply, weak, and so my recent epiphany does not serve any purpose in changing my past hatred for said clothes.

The other day I was running and wanted to sprint the last half mile (maybe three minutes). I wanted to collapse and was about to stop when suddenly an Indian patriotic song came on my ITunes, which if you know me, isn’t that surprising a fact, and so psychologically speaking, I told myself not to get off that treadmill until the song was over, “Do it for India yo - you got this shiznizzle”.

In conclusion, the song served the same purpose as the clothes.

But tis’ true that running in bulky fleece sweatpants is detrimental to the very act of running - but I like ridiculously trivial self-proposed challenges and so I deal.

I no longer run in the gym though. No, I decided to attend the cardio-intensive dance classes instead and it’s been real so far, as I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the treadmills - so long and farewell.

Here’s to thriving -