I broke up with my gym last Friday.
I’m pretty sure the feeling was mutual. We hadn’t seen each other in two months, and being reunited was, to say the least, quite awkward–for both of us.
Believe me, I wanted to give it another chance. I showed up with an open mind, ready to work hard at rekindling something, anything. But just walking into the place was an exercise in psychology: The sauna was too hot, the pool was too cold, and I’m no expert in bipolar fitness.
Also, there were other girls–and they were everywhere. They were too intense, too bubbly, too physically perfect, too single-track minded. (I’m not talking about the single track that requires applying feet to the pedals of an actual bicyle, either. And since mountain biking season has arrived and the spring rains have abated, I’ve been able to think of little else but the foothills and their firm, meandering trails.)
I think the dealbreaker, though, was the excessive attention placed on my weight. For me, the minute body fat comes into question, I’m out. So I didn’t deal well when a newly placed physician’s scale greeted me upon my entry into the locker room. (I’ll save my love handles for someone who will love them, not for someone that wants to attempt to sculpt me into a 5 foot 1 inch, brunette–and very bookish–Barbie, thank you very much.)
The truth is, I moved on. Maybe we grew apart, maybe I got tired of feeling unnecessarily insecure.
Either way, it’s over. I see no sense in remaining committed to a boring routine that only exhausts and defeats me, when something beautiful and authentic is only a short distance away.
But I’m staying strong–by clipping in, putting my head down, and pedaling. And I’m rediscovering my sexy–thanks to a newfound love of pole dancing classes. Most importantly, I’m regaining my balance–both physically and emotionally–with the help of warrior and child’s pose.
I’m sure the gym will be just fine without me.