Working Out an Unlikely Pastime

I recently asked my sister what she would least expect me to do.

"Join a gym," she said.

Well, guess what. That's exactly what I've done.

I've never been what you would call the athletic type. I can't throw anything except a tantrum, and I can't catch anything but a virus.

P.E. class was always miserable. I was picked last for every team. "Coach" would order us to climb the rope or do a pull-up without the least bit of instruction. I could never do it. As soon as I could, I got out of P.E. by joining the marching band.

No wonder I've never been interested in any type of organized physical activity (except square dancing - but I quit that when it got too competitive).

So what happened? Well, I'm staring down the barrel of my 47th birthday in a couple of months. I've reached my maximum acceptable (to me) weight of 200 pounds. And a coworker 15 years my junior made me climb four flights of stairs to the office with him one day instead of riding the elevator. I panted and wheezed for a half hour afterwards. Preparing to dial 9-1-1, he asked if I was ok. Breathing too hard to answer, I smiled and waved as if I were having a good laugh.

Clearly it's time to do something about my body.

So I started looking around. The first place I went to was a cheap and bare bones gym. The cheap I liked, but the strip-mall store front was too public for me. I couldn't work out among young muscle-heads when people could stand on the sidewalk outside and watch. Plus, there wasn't a shower. I was going to need a shower.

One of the advantages of middle age (if you're childless and employed like I am) is that you can afford to spend a little. I went from the strip mall directly to one of the most expensive gyms in town. Actually, it's not a gym, it's an "athletic club" where in addition to working out, you can swim in one of three pools, get a manicure, have a massage, take a steam, and grab a smoothie on the way out. That this club has "Cherry Creek" in its name is almost too much (if you don't know Denver, Cherry Creek is the premiere neighborhood for shopping, fashion, spas, restaurants, art galleries, and boutiques - in other words, it's wealthy and pretentious). This club is the kind of place where guys read the Wall Street Journal while using the treadmill. What kind of hybrid driving, Starbucks drinking, NPR listening, Landmark Theater going, overly educated white urban professional would I be if I spent my hard earned money on this expensive, luxurious, state-of-the-art athletic club? Answer: the kind who would get up at 5:00 a.m., drive with radio tuned to NPR, carry his work clothes in a bag as he crosses a dark parking lot into a large brick building with no windows, and whip his flabby body into shape.

I've been there almost every day for two weeks now. I've spent most of my time swimming, but finally met with a physical trainer (a chipper young lad named Eric) to start a workout routine. Eric is teaching me how to do pull-ups and other sweat-producing stuff.

In addition to techniques, Eric shares his passion and philosophy about working out. I am learning that it is better to work your whole body, not just your biceps or your chest in isolation. It's fun. I'm enjoying myself. And in the winter, when it's really cold, there will be a sauna I can use to warm up.

Freshly showered and shaved, sweaty workout clothes in the bag, I drive my hybrid away from the club. There's a very convenient Starbucks on the way to the office.