MOM ON THE RUN
“Ugh,” my son says. He leans back in his chair, flops his head backwards in disgust. “Seriously, can we talk about something other than the gym?”
My husband glances over at him, then at me, and we laugh. Well, I laugh, cheerily, happily. My husband chuckles, kind of a flat solidarity “heh-heh”. And that sound stops my laughter.
“OK,” I say, a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
My son knows this is a delicate area, and, “It’s just that it’s the only thing we talk about!,” he adds. My husband, not sure how I’m going to react, nods gently in support of his son.
I started going to the gym last February. I began using the treadmill, then graduated to the elliptical, and got bored and added circuit weights. Then I booked a series of personal training sessions with the very patient Jeremy. And then, because I’m cheap and needed a buddy to make me go, I asked my neighbor Dave to “show me some weights.”
So Dave did. Kind, generous Dave took me under his huge muscular wing, and dragged me along through his weight training routine for the whole summer, and now I do it all by myself. And Dave’s weight training routine is that of a body-building man, so, ta-da, that’s what I do. Accidentally. Had I realized, I would have found someone less, um, focused to teach me, another woman. But oh well, now here I am.
Or, rather, there I am, at the gym, every single day. Though he’s busy and not around much, I faithfully follow Dave’s training schedule, each day focused on a different body part: shoulders, back, chest, arms, and legs, with abs on alternating days. It’s me and 15 to 20 men in Manland, lifting heavy things up and putting them down, over and over and over.
At first I thought it was pointless and silly. But I’m competitive, and only lifting one-third (or less) of Dave’s weight annoyed me, so I started to focus pretty quickly. And now picking up heavy stuff and putting it back down is what I do in my spare time, and what I think about, and, apparently, what I talk about. All the time. My transition into gym rat was sudden and funny, but I guess the novelty has worn off, and my son has finally had enough.
“So I can’t talk about it at all?” I can try to follow the rules, but … not talk about Manland? About all the characters, like the Professor, and GI Joe, and Matchy-Matchy, and Baby? Not tell about how Psycho Nikes hollers and grunts when he lifts, and I’m sure he’s going to bite his tongue off? Not describe how Altar Boy prays, loudly, for divine assistance with heavy weights? Not even tell embarrassing stories about myself, like when I couldn’t get the bar back on the rack, so I wrestled it to my lap, and then when I tried to pick it up it tilted and all the weights slid off the bar and landed with a clang on the floor, and then the other side did too, and all the guys turned and stared?
Manland is a hilarious place! The men are unfiltered, belching and arranging themselves, and their raw true selves are so funny. And the fact that I’m in there too, picking up heavy things and putting them back down, and watching my new muscles in the mirrors, and drinking protein drinks afterwards … it’s a remarkable new world, and I’m not allowed to talk about it? Really?
“Well, a little bit,” my 17-year-old allows. I grin – yes! It’s something he and I can actually talk about together, one small commonality – “But you’re not allowed to call them ‘quarters’ and ‘dimes’. You have to call them 25 pound and 10 pound plates.” He stabs his finger at me for emphasis.
“Yes, sir,” I say, and grin.
I wait a beat, then, “So can I tell you what happened at the gym today?”
Together, my husband and son groan and roll their eyes, and look at each other in resignation.
Lianne Wilkens lives with her family in Manassas. Reach her at liannewilkens[at]hotmail[dot]com.
