I walk into Planet Fitness, and I smell that typical gym smell. The cleaning supplies that they use to wipe down the machines, mixed with the sweat of all those working out. I find a chair by the window and glance around while we wait for Mr. Alford. I notice all of the purple and yellow on the walls, the welcome mats and the front desk.
I hate the gym.
While we are waiting, I notice the music is playing. It doesn't sound like the typical gym music, not something that would get you pumped up for working out. I also notice the gym isn't very busy at this time of day.
Finally, Mr. Alford arrives and we get to take a tour of the entire gym. Our tour guide is Jason. It's actually a lot bigger in here than I thought it was from the outside. Jason starts telling us about all of the machines, but my mind starts to wander. Every once in a while I pick up on the phrase "Judgement Free Zone". Apparently they are trying to appeal to the "average guy". The one that's intimidated by the big guy.
Most people are on the treadmills, and there are a few working on the circuits. In the back room, there is one woman doing the 30 minute circuit training using the red light/green light system.
By the end of the tour, I still don't like the gym.
A man runs along an invisible trail, as nature refused to be present during his afternoon jog. I don’t know where he’s running to or what he’s running from but it seems as if I should join him. I watch briefly as sweat trickled down the brim of his thin nose as the wind, which has been packed into a large AC unit, cools his 5’11 frame. He runs with ease to his internal destination as radiant light beams from the artificial sun above him.
He’s probably only trying to lose a couple pounds for the upcoming summer vacation and so am I. However joining him on a near by treadmill was not an option I was willing to take because sweating doesn’t befits me. When I began thinking thoughts of losing at least four hundred pounds, the fear of losing apart of me became unavoidable. The thought of losing the one I love for a chance of gaining a part of me that I’ve forgotten, scared me into believing that life will become a lot worst before it becomes better for either of us.
“Hey baby.” Marlon says with a great spirit. “Good morning.” I smiled because my love for him mirrors his affection, so just hearing his voice made everything wrong in the world right. “Good morning baby.” I replied.
He never expected my next move and neither did I. I love him more then anything so this was my chance to give him a chance at life. My heart deteriorated under the pressure of delivering my next line. “It’s over.” Hurt stained my core, because he’s who makes me happy during the worst possible times. But I have to loose 400 pounds in order to gain a once of myself that I’ve forgotten about while loving him.
I run along an invisible trail running from the love of my life, in order to give him a chance at gaining the part of his life that he lost while loving me. Our smiles fade into unanswered questions, and unwanted acceptance of taking a chancing in walking from everything with hope of finding another like the one we’ve found within each other. Radiant light fails to shine upon me, as small tear drops saturated my face before finding comfort in the palms of hands. I run away from external destination with great difficulty. I wonder if Marlon will join me. I lost 400 pounds Friday without the present of a treadmill, and a greater part of myself.
Planet fitness, a warehouse full exercise equipment covered in coat of cheap paint, boasts itself as being the judgment free zone. The whole idea is completely laughable. To have a membership to planet fitness is to ask others to judge you. Rather, it is to expect others to judge you. A handful of people burnout the treadmills and stairsteppers. Many of them are middle-aged; most of them are overweight. At two o’clock on a Friday afternoon, one wonders how these people can go to the gym at this time of day? Are they not employed? Perhaps they work from home, an upper middle class home somewhere in West Mobile. One of the Planet Fitness trainers explains about the gym’s policies. According to Mr. Fitness, this gym is for those people who just want to shed a few pounds or stay in shape. It is against gym policy to build excessive muscle. If you’re seen sweating, they will blue-light you so the entire establishment can turn their heads and judge you to their own personal iPod soundtracks. It’s easy to note that Mr. Fitness wears a well fit black shirt (black makes you slimmer). The shirt hides nothing; Mr. Fitness is not overweight. He’s in his twenties with a body that says so. Again, one must wonder what the beer belly on treadmill eight thinks of Mr. Fitness? He judges him, and he approves. He wants to be like him: thinner, younger, better looking. So he comes to the gym with it all. Here, he can burn his fat and tan his body while getting rid of his wrinkles with the free samples of age-defying tanning bed lotion. But when he sweats on the treadmill burning his fat, and when he sweats in the hot, cancer causing tanning bed, the blue light will flash, and the alarm will sound, and everyone will turn and judge him; and they will approve. “Doesn’t he look young? How old would you say he is? Forty? Forty-five?” He’s fifty-six, but everyone looks younger standing in a gym. Planet Fitness charges for this. The man pays them to make him look younger, not by actually doing anything, but just by allowing him to stand there. After all, he still has a beer belly, but by the ease of his routine, his membership card reeks of a six-month-old birthday just around the corner. If he really wanted to get fit, he could do it for free. He could jog alongside the soccer moms in West Mobile, up and down the narrow streets of the socialite neighborhoods. He could do sit-ups, push-ups, lunges, and aerobics in the comfort of his own living room, cold beer only a room away in the kitchen fridge. These locations, however, are not ideal. No one will judge him on the street in West Mobile. It’s hard to judge from the other side of an SUV’s windshield while talking on you RAZR phone. No one will judge him in his living room. His wife has already judged him, and his bank account has been approved. So, he comes here, to the judgment free zone. He puts himself on the slab like a hog at the fair, and he wins the blue ribbon. “Doesn’t he look young?” This is America; there is no judgment free zone, and who would stand for it if there was? We pay good money to be judged.
Shoes slap and grip humming treadmills. Lungs suck in and push out stale air. A white towel swings on a handle bar. Sweat beads find themselves booby-trapped in headbands. Vigor waft s through the air. They call this place “Planet Fitness,” as if it’s a celestial body reserved only for those who fall into the category of “fit.” A homeland for the healthy. A realm for the robust. But, to me, this magical kingdom of cardio seems more like a funhouse than a place for cultivating wellness. There are mirrors all over the place. One whole side of the building is nothing more than one continuing mirror. I find myself almost constantly distracted by my own reflection. Am I really that short? Is my hair really that long? Is my butt really that big? There’s a lady working out on one of the weight machines that can’t stop staring at herself, either. She flips her bleach raped hair back and forth over her shoulders and glances at the man on the adjacent machine. I try my best to nonchalantly watch her reflection from a distance, but after a while, curiosity moves me to a closer perch. Her face and chest look like animatronics molded from latex and silicone then airbrushed in a hue of burnt orange. Why would a normal person do that to herself? It seems there’s a fine line between sexy and trashy. One of The Planet’s inhabitants takes me and my classmates on a tour of the place. If I only had a quarter for every time he said “judgment free,” then maybe I could buy myself a six month membership. It reminded me of one of those crazy college drinking games, like watching Scarface and taking a shot every time Al Pacino says “fuck.” I really don’t know what I think of the gym. Part of me longs to rid myself of the wiggles and jiggles, but another part demands that I concentrate on the maelstrom of projects I have already begun that lack completion. It whispers things like, “German Quiz” or “Laundry.” So, tight abs and buns of steel just end up in the category of things better left for tomorrow. I respect the Fitnessians for their willpower and their hunger for physical self-betterment. They seem to be an intense bunch, casing each other through a hamster cage of bars, weights, and pulleys. It’s probably best that I board my proverbial spaceship and leave them to their world. I hear Planet Hollywood’s got hot burgers and cold martinis.
I pull into the parking lot of Planet Fitness. I’ve really been dreading this field trip. Not because I don’t like the gym atmosphere, or because I’m intimidated by people who are in shape, but because I’m not really all that into guilt. I haven’t done any physical activity other than sex in at least four years, and sex just made me even lazier. Gave me the misconception that I was loved and could just let it go, which I did, but at some point I had to rope it back in. I feel slightly guilty walking into a gym because I’ve been that gym person before. Not so much the “grunter” or “free weight dropper”, but I have spent many hours in gyms doing cardio stuff. For those who don’t know gym jargon, “cardio stuff” is a term used by the elitists of the hobby.
The last time I can remember actually doing a full-body workout plan was when I was in high school. I played as many sports as I could considering I was a 5’ 8 ½”, 145 lb monster. Yeah I was pretty small. You’d think I’d have that “little man” complex. Instead I floundered along, not really getting “into” anything, especially if it required work. It wasn’t until my senior year of football that things changed.
For most of the year I had been playing catch-up. I had a neck injury in one of our preseason practices, and most of my practice time had been spent doing rehabilitative exercises. Once I could finally play, my coach decided “special teams” would be a great reintroduction to the speed of the game. What an idiot. I was pretty fast considering I was basically a welterweight in pads, so naturally I beat most of the monsters down the field. I cut past blockers, zeroing in my target. My last conscious thought was, “too fast, too fast”. He made a fairly simple cut-back and easily blew by me, but not before I could leave the ground with a semi-serious air attack. I never touched more than his shoulder-pads. I hit the ground and did the instinctive roll designated with realizing I’d missed a tackle. The roll was designed to make me look like I had injured myself, maybe to take the focus off of the blunder. The only problem was that our star center, who was readily awaiting graduation and a scholarship, was too slow to get out of the way. I rolled into his huge path and blew out his left or right knee, I can’t really remember which. I felt horrible about it until every lineman on my own team went for my knee during the next practice. They barely hyper-extended it, but it hurt, and it gave me an excuse to sit out the rest of the year and play guitar. Well, play guitar and eat.
By the time I left for my freshmen year of college, I was up to 185 lbs. Sitting around, playing guitar, and eating was my horrible list of hobbies for this time period. I was under the misconception that since I was always a 145 lb weakling, it must have been genetics. I thought I could continue to eat as much as I wanted to without ever gaining a pound. I was wrong, but I was persistent in my attempts to ignore the fact that I was steadily losing sight of my lower body.
The first college I went to was MTSU, near Nashville. I didn’t know a single person within 300 miles of that place. After about a week of driving myself crazy in solitude, my sister called and suggested I “Go Greek”. She had. And she met tons of people she didn’t talk to any more, but it was fun. I went down to the lobby floor of my freshmen dorm and found a flyer for a free cookout at a fraternity house. Food AND beer. It was perfect. I was the first one to show up. I was full and still eating by seven and drunk and pledging by ten. The entire remainder of the semester was a complete blur. My designated big brother and I drank at least an eighteen pack of beer a night, just to keep our tolerances up. I guess. Regardless, upon returning home for my first collegiate Christmas break, I entered a house where it seemed I was a complete stranger. I weighed exactly 200 lbs on the electronic scale in my mom’s bathroom. After asking me, “Who are you and why have you eaten my son?” she made me weigh in. I quickly realized it was time for a change, when that year’s family Christmas jokes would sound something like: “fix your plate before Kennon comes” or “Better go ahead and get dessert now, he’s distacted” or “Now Kennon, that present (a t-shirt) is not edible”. It’s cool though; I got them back the next year when they were all mysteriously simultaneously pregnant.
When I moved back to MTSU for the Spring semester, I was a changed man. I started going to gyms, doing cardio stuff and playing basketball and racquetball. I have to say that I’m more prone to get into sport-related exercise than to actually workout. The real change started when I decided to run the indoor track. I ran three miles a night for three months. I lost 40 lbs in the first month and a half. I vowed to never be 200 pounds again until I was 40 (There has to be a cares-cutoff-age for people like me). Since then I’ve gained weight with sex-based relationship happiness and lost it during the sexless break-up periods; probably about four or five different times. Once the fun, new period wears off, I’m a jerk cause I need my “me time”, and they’re too good to deal with me because I’ve gained about 15 pounds. It’s a pretty hilarious cycle, and it’s cool. My body has an emergency button. It pushes it to suppress my appetite; to make me desirable to the next whoever it is.
Upon touring Planet Fitness, I feel guilty because I know it’s just about time for me to start working out again. Not only am I in another happy long-distance relationship, my mom has been buying me groceries. Awesome! She found out I was skinny because I couldn’t afford to eat more than once a day. I love it when she finds out about the things I’m too embarrassed to tell her. We even went to Wal-Mart together so she could see what I like to eat “these days”. Too cute. She really is awesome.
I’m trying to hear what our tour guide has to say, but I’m caught up in the “kinds” of people here. The one thing I like about this place, is that these people remind me of myself, sometimes, THOSE times. They’re here even though they don’t want to be, cause they don’t want to let themselves go too far off the deep end, but they don’t want to devote their lives to working out as their hobby. Not to say it’s not a cool hobby, but for some its just a necessity. I already have hobbies that I actually enjoy and that don’t leave me sore and irritable the next day, but as I take a big bite out of the strawberry shortcake Little Debbie my mom bought me from Wal-Mart, I can see myself with a cool state-of-the-art P.F. key ring. I think I’ll try the school rec center first though. It’s free and I’m cheap and at least I can play basketball while I’m trying to convince myself to run or workout or do cardio stuff.
When there is talk of planets, the nine planets in our solar system come to mind, a great system where each planet has its own moons and stars, its own space. There has been talk of elevators to outer space and future field trips to the moon: a place where there are limitless possibilities and boundaries. But presently, most people have never navigated through the milky galaxies of the universe or had the unique experience of bouncing effortlessly on the dusty surface of a crater- filled moon. We are Earthlians, more specifically, people looking for a zone that we can call our own.
Located where the busy streets of Airport and University Boulevard intersect, there is such a place, Planet Fitness, a judgment-free zone.
Upon opening the doors, calming shades of purple and yellow, the color of energy, create a balanced emotion. A woman cycling, someone’s mother, sister, daughter, cousin, she could be me. A heavy man, heavily perspiring, someone’s father, brother, son, cousin. Staff members wiping sweat residue from mirrors, vacuuming, collecting fallen hairs, lint from clothing and invisible residue from the loads of stress, intimidation, and pounds shed in the hope of revealing a more light-hearted being. There’s a positive energy that seems to radiate creating a sort of utopian atmosphere on Planet Fitness, ideal for those beings wanting to workout minus the great expectations, minus the stereotyping. On the contrary, prejudices obviously exist just as they do in most areas of our great planet, Earth.
Throughout the atmosphere, the law is written, assumed, understood, and somewhat enforced: “We don’t cater to body builders”, exclaims Jason, raising his eyebrows, stretching his eyes to convey credibility (unless you are the guy with large biceps, calves, and protruding pectoral muscles). He adds, “Planet Fitness is a judgment free zone” My mind began to synthesize Jason’s words in relation to racial prejudice: they are all here Black, White, Oriental, and Hispanic. Shades of purple and yellow continue.
A housewife named Brenda, 51 years of age, says, “I’m in love with this place, no waiting, no pressure, it gives me the sense of stability”.
A regular, ripped jock (possibly mistaken for a body builder, so he seems to think) flexes his chest muscles and arches his lips upward, blowing the hairs up that are pasted to his forehead with perspiration. He mumbles, “This place is alright if you just want a cheap place to workout”. He adds that he does an extra set of workouts after leaving the gym. I pretend to be impressed. I thank him, leaving him more room for self-admiration.
A season veteran, who answered by my respectful (Sirs) was older from what I gathered, so I didn’t want to seem too pushy. “ Sir, how are you today? This is my first time here at Planet Fitness and, I was hoping that you could tell me a little bit about your experience, likes, dislikes, and what you think about Planet Fitness.”
“Sure”, he said, looking directly at me with blue confident eyes, centered closely to his sharp pointed nose, dripping with sweat. His body, red and wrinkled shows signs of aging and weathering I’ll call him a veteran. I see perseverance, encouragement, and pride. He says, “It’s a stress reliever, I’ve been a member long before this place, was called Planet Fitness. I’ve used just about every piece of equipment, here! You gotta pace yourself; any of these young guys around here can assist you. Wellll, that’s about it, It’s a great place to workout no matter who you are” (adding a slight smile of encouragement for a potential member). He continues his pattern and strides vigorously to the next machine. Thanking him for his time and opinion, I move along.
Planet Fitness, judgment free, I don’t think so. Signs that say no hands on glass keep potential outbreaks of shattering one’s unattractive reflection to a minimal or none. The staff continuously wipes the mirrors with cloths filled with a unique solution made up of perspiration and Windex, making make-believe circles as a source of entertainment. Why are there so many mirrors? And why do they have to be sooooo clean? It’s definitely a way to keep the members coming. We all know mirrors add pounds to you. They know that there are those of you whose reflection will help you to find your way back to Planet Fitness: The Fitness Frontier.
Young, old, beginners, regulars, red, silver, blue exercise balls, True stretch workout resembles a child’s jungle gym model traffic lights, green light, red light, the express workout becomes an adult playground Tanning beds, my skin color without the stigma attached Shades of calming purple and yellow, the color of energy Planet Fitness, the fitness frontier
6 comments:
I walk into Planet Fitness, and I smell that typical gym smell. The cleaning supplies that they use to wipe down the machines, mixed with the sweat of all those working out. I find a chair by the window and glance around while we wait for Mr. Alford. I notice all of the purple and yellow on the walls, the welcome mats and the front desk.
I hate the gym.
While we are waiting, I notice the music is playing. It doesn't sound like the typical gym music, not something that would get you pumped up for working out. I also notice the gym isn't very busy at this time of day.
Finally, Mr. Alford arrives and we get to take a tour of the entire gym. Our tour guide is Jason. It's actually a lot bigger in here than I thought it was from the outside. Jason starts telling us about all of the machines, but my mind starts to wander. Every once in a while I pick up on the phrase "Judgement Free Zone". Apparently they are trying to appeal to the "average guy". The one that's intimidated by the big guy.
Most people are on the treadmills, and there are a few working on the circuits. In the back room, there is one woman doing the 30 minute circuit training using the red light/green light system.
By the end of the tour, I still don't like the gym.
A man runs along an invisible trail, as nature refused to be present during his afternoon jog. I don’t know where he’s running to or what he’s running from but it seems as if I should join him. I watch briefly as sweat trickled down the brim of his thin nose as the wind, which has been packed into a large AC unit, cools his 5’11 frame. He runs with ease to his internal destination as radiant light beams from the artificial sun above him.
He’s probably only trying to lose a couple pounds for the upcoming summer vacation and so am I. However joining him on a near by treadmill was not an option I was willing to take because sweating doesn’t befits me. When I began thinking thoughts of losing at least four hundred pounds, the fear of losing apart of me became unavoidable. The thought of losing the one I love for a chance of gaining a part of me that I’ve forgotten, scared me into believing that life will become a lot worst before it becomes better for either of us.
“Hey baby.” Marlon says with a great spirit. “Good morning.”
I smiled because my love for him mirrors his affection, so just hearing his voice made everything wrong in the world right. “Good morning baby.” I replied.
He never expected my next move and neither did I. I love him more then anything so this was my chance to give him a chance at life. My heart deteriorated under the pressure of delivering my next line. “It’s over.” Hurt stained my core, because he’s who makes me happy during the worst possible times. But I have to loose 400 pounds in order to gain a once of myself that I’ve forgotten about while loving him.
I run along an invisible trail running from the love of my life, in order to give him a chance at gaining the part of his life that he lost while loving me. Our smiles fade into unanswered questions, and unwanted acceptance of taking a chancing in walking from everything with hope of finding another like the one we’ve found within each other. Radiant light fails to shine upon me, as small tear drops saturated my face before finding comfort in the palms of hands. I run away from external destination with great difficulty. I wonder if Marlon will join me. I lost 400 pounds Friday without the present of a treadmill, and a greater part of myself.
Planet fitness, a warehouse full exercise equipment covered in coat of cheap paint, boasts itself as being the judgment free zone.
The whole idea is completely laughable.
To have a membership to planet fitness is to ask others to judge you. Rather, it is to expect others to judge you.
A handful of people burnout the treadmills and stairsteppers. Many of them are middle-aged; most of them are overweight. At two o’clock on a Friday afternoon, one wonders how these people can go to the gym at this time of day? Are they not employed? Perhaps they work from home, an upper middle class home somewhere in West Mobile.
One of the Planet Fitness trainers explains about the gym’s policies. According to Mr. Fitness, this gym is for those people who just want to shed a few pounds or stay in shape. It is against gym policy to build excessive muscle. If you’re seen sweating, they will blue-light you so the entire establishment can turn their heads and judge you to their own personal iPod soundtracks.
It’s easy to note that Mr. Fitness wears a well fit black shirt (black makes you slimmer). The shirt hides nothing; Mr. Fitness is not overweight. He’s in his twenties with a body that says so.
Again, one must wonder what the beer belly on treadmill eight thinks of Mr. Fitness? He judges him, and he approves.
He wants to be like him: thinner, younger, better looking. So he comes to the gym with it all. Here, he can burn his fat and tan his body while getting rid of his wrinkles with the free samples of age-defying tanning bed lotion.
But when he sweats on the treadmill burning his fat, and when he sweats in the hot, cancer causing tanning bed, the blue light will flash, and the alarm will sound, and everyone will turn and judge him; and they will approve.
“Doesn’t he look young? How old would you say he is? Forty? Forty-five?”
He’s fifty-six, but everyone looks younger standing in a gym.
Planet Fitness charges for this. The man pays them to make him look younger, not by actually doing anything, but just by allowing him to stand there.
After all, he still has a beer belly, but by the ease of his routine, his membership card reeks of a six-month-old birthday just around the corner. If he really wanted to get fit, he could do it for free. He could jog alongside the soccer moms in West Mobile, up and down the narrow streets of the socialite neighborhoods. He could do sit-ups, push-ups, lunges, and aerobics in the comfort of his own living room, cold beer only a room away in the kitchen fridge.
These locations, however, are not ideal. No one will judge him on the street in West Mobile. It’s hard to judge from the other side of an SUV’s windshield while talking on you RAZR phone. No one will judge him in his living room. His wife has already judged him, and his bank account has been approved.
So, he comes here, to the judgment free zone. He puts himself on the slab like a hog at the fair, and he wins the blue ribbon.
“Doesn’t he look young?”
This is America; there is no judgment free zone, and who would stand for it if there was? We pay good money to be judged.
Shoes slap and grip humming treadmills. Lungs suck in and push out stale air. A white towel swings on a handle bar. Sweat beads find themselves booby-trapped in headbands. Vigor waft s through the air.
They call this place “Planet Fitness,” as if it’s a celestial body reserved only for those who fall into the category of “fit.” A homeland for the healthy. A realm for the robust.
But, to me, this magical kingdom of cardio seems more like a funhouse than a place for cultivating wellness. There are mirrors all over the place. One whole side of the building is nothing more than one continuing mirror. I find myself almost constantly distracted by my own reflection. Am I really that short? Is my hair really that long? Is my butt really that big?
There’s a lady working out on one of the weight machines that can’t stop staring at herself, either. She flips her bleach raped hair back and forth over her shoulders and glances at the man on the adjacent machine. I try my best to nonchalantly watch her reflection from a distance, but after a while, curiosity moves me to a closer perch. Her face and chest look like animatronics molded from latex and silicone then airbrushed in a hue of burnt orange. Why would a normal person do that to herself? It seems there’s a fine line between sexy and trashy.
One of The Planet’s inhabitants takes me and my classmates on a tour of the place. If I only had a quarter for every time he said “judgment free,” then maybe I could buy myself a six month membership. It reminded me of one of those crazy college drinking games, like watching Scarface and taking a shot every time Al Pacino says “fuck.”
I really don’t know what I think of the gym. Part of me longs to rid myself of the wiggles and jiggles, but another part demands that I concentrate on the maelstrom of projects I have already begun that lack completion. It whispers things like, “German Quiz” or “Laundry.” So, tight abs and buns of steel just end up in the category of things better left for tomorrow.
I respect the Fitnessians for their willpower and their hunger for physical self-betterment. They seem to be an intense bunch, casing each other through a hamster cage of bars, weights, and pulleys. It’s probably best that I board my proverbial spaceship and leave them to their world. I hear Planet Hollywood’s got hot burgers and cold martinis.
I pull into the parking lot of Planet Fitness. I’ve really been dreading this field trip. Not because I don’t like the gym atmosphere, or because I’m intimidated by people who are in shape, but because I’m not really all that into guilt. I haven’t done any physical activity other than sex in at least four years, and sex just made me even lazier. Gave me the misconception that I was loved and could just let it go, which I did, but at some point I had to rope it back in. I feel slightly guilty walking into a gym because I’ve been that gym person before. Not so much the “grunter” or “free weight dropper”, but I have spent many hours in gyms doing cardio stuff. For those who don’t know gym jargon, “cardio stuff” is a term used by the elitists of the hobby.
The last time I can remember actually doing a full-body workout plan was when I was in high school. I played as many sports as I could considering I was a 5’ 8 ½”, 145 lb monster. Yeah I was pretty small. You’d think I’d have that “little man” complex. Instead I floundered along, not really getting “into” anything, especially if it required work. It wasn’t until my senior year of football that things changed.
For most of the year I had been playing catch-up. I had a neck injury in one of our preseason practices, and most of my practice time had been spent doing rehabilitative exercises. Once I could finally play, my coach decided “special teams” would be a great reintroduction to the speed of the game. What an idiot. I was pretty fast considering I was basically a welterweight in pads, so naturally I beat most of the monsters down the field. I cut past blockers, zeroing in my target. My last conscious thought was, “too fast, too fast”. He made a fairly simple cut-back and easily blew by me, but not before I could leave the ground with a semi-serious air attack. I never touched more than his shoulder-pads. I hit the ground and did the instinctive roll designated with realizing I’d missed a tackle. The roll was designed to make me look like I had injured myself, maybe to take the focus off of the blunder. The only problem was that our star center, who was readily awaiting graduation and a scholarship, was too slow to get out of the way. I rolled into his huge path and blew out his left or right knee, I can’t really remember which. I felt horrible about it until every lineman on my own team went for my knee during the next practice. They barely hyper-extended it, but it hurt, and it gave me an excuse to sit out the rest of the year and play guitar. Well, play guitar and eat.
By the time I left for my freshmen year of college, I was up to 185 lbs. Sitting around, playing guitar, and eating was my horrible list of hobbies for this time period. I was under the misconception that since I was always a 145 lb weakling, it must have been genetics. I thought I could continue to eat as much as I wanted to without ever gaining a pound. I was wrong, but I was persistent in my attempts to ignore the fact that I was steadily losing sight of my lower body.
The first college I went to was MTSU, near Nashville. I didn’t know a single person within 300 miles of that place. After about a week of driving myself crazy in solitude, my sister called and suggested I “Go Greek”. She had. And she met tons of people she didn’t talk to any more, but it was fun. I went down to the lobby floor of my freshmen dorm and found a flyer for a free cookout at a fraternity house. Food AND beer. It was perfect. I was the first one to show up. I was full and still eating by seven and drunk and pledging by ten. The entire remainder of the semester was a complete blur. My designated big brother and I drank at least an eighteen pack of beer a night, just to keep our tolerances up. I guess. Regardless, upon returning home for my first collegiate Christmas break, I entered a house where it seemed I was a complete stranger. I weighed exactly 200 lbs on the electronic scale in my mom’s bathroom. After asking me, “Who are you and why have you eaten my son?” she made me weigh in. I quickly realized it was time for a change, when that year’s family Christmas jokes would sound something like: “fix your plate before Kennon comes” or “Better go ahead and get dessert now, he’s distacted” or “Now Kennon, that present (a t-shirt) is not edible”. It’s cool though; I got them back the next year when they were all mysteriously simultaneously pregnant.
When I moved back to MTSU for the Spring semester, I was a changed man. I started going to gyms, doing cardio stuff and playing basketball and racquetball. I have to say that I’m more prone to get into sport-related exercise than to actually workout. The real change started when I decided to run the indoor track. I ran three miles a night for three months. I lost 40 lbs in the first month and a half. I vowed to never be 200 pounds again until I was 40 (There has to be a cares-cutoff-age for people like me). Since then I’ve gained weight with sex-based relationship happiness and lost it during the sexless break-up periods; probably about four or five different times. Once the fun, new period wears off, I’m a jerk cause I need my “me time”, and they’re too good to deal with me because I’ve gained about 15 pounds. It’s a pretty hilarious cycle, and it’s cool. My body has an emergency button. It pushes it to suppress my appetite; to make me desirable to the next whoever it is.
Upon touring Planet Fitness, I feel guilty because I know it’s just about time for me to start working out again. Not only am I in another happy long-distance relationship, my mom has been buying me groceries. Awesome! She found out I was skinny because I couldn’t afford to eat more than once a day. I love it when she finds out about the things I’m too embarrassed to tell her. We even went to Wal-Mart together so she could see what I like to eat “these days”. Too cute. She really is awesome.
I’m trying to hear what our tour guide has to say, but I’m caught up in the “kinds” of people here. The one thing I like about this place, is that these people remind me of myself, sometimes, THOSE times. They’re here even though they don’t want to be, cause they don’t want to let themselves go too far off the deep end, but they don’t want to devote their lives to working out as their hobby. Not to say it’s not a cool hobby, but for some its just a necessity. I already have hobbies that I actually enjoy and that don’t leave me sore and irritable the next day, but as I take a big bite out of the strawberry shortcake Little Debbie my mom bought me from Wal-Mart, I can see myself with a cool state-of-the-art P.F. key ring. I think I’ll try the school rec center first though. It’s free and I’m cheap and at least I can play basketball while I’m trying to convince myself to run or workout or do cardio stuff.
Paula Harris
Creative Nonfiction
Planet Fitness: The Fitness Frontier
When there is talk of planets, the nine planets in our solar system come to mind, a great system where each planet has its own moons and stars, its own space. There has been talk of elevators to outer space and future field trips to the moon: a place where there are limitless possibilities and boundaries. But presently, most people have never navigated through the milky galaxies of the universe or had the unique experience of bouncing effortlessly on the dusty surface of a crater- filled moon. We are Earthlians, more specifically, people looking for a zone that we can call our own.
Located where the busy streets of Airport and University Boulevard intersect, there is such a place, Planet Fitness, a judgment-free zone.
Upon opening the doors, calming shades of purple and yellow, the color of energy, create a balanced emotion. A woman cycling, someone’s mother, sister, daughter, cousin, she could be me. A heavy man, heavily perspiring, someone’s father, brother, son, cousin.
Staff members wiping sweat residue from mirrors, vacuuming, collecting fallen hairs, lint from clothing and invisible residue from the loads of stress, intimidation, and pounds shed in the hope of revealing a more light-hearted being. There’s a positive energy that seems to radiate creating a sort of utopian atmosphere on Planet Fitness, ideal for those beings wanting to workout minus the great expectations, minus the stereotyping. On the contrary, prejudices obviously exist just as they do in most areas of our great planet, Earth.
Throughout the atmosphere, the law is written, assumed, understood, and somewhat enforced: “We don’t cater to body builders”, exclaims Jason, raising his eyebrows, stretching his eyes to convey credibility (unless you are the guy with large biceps, calves, and protruding pectoral muscles). He adds, “Planet Fitness is a judgment free zone” My mind began to synthesize Jason’s words in relation to racial prejudice: they are all here Black, White, Oriental, and Hispanic. Shades of purple and yellow continue.
A housewife named Brenda, 51 years of age, says, “I’m in love with this place, no waiting, no pressure, it gives me the sense of stability”.
A regular, ripped jock (possibly mistaken for a body builder, so he seems to think) flexes his chest muscles and arches his lips upward, blowing the hairs up that are pasted to his forehead with perspiration. He mumbles, “This place is alright if you just want a cheap place to workout”. He adds that he does an extra set of workouts after leaving the gym. I pretend to be impressed. I thank him, leaving him more room for self-admiration.
A season veteran, who answered by my respectful (Sirs) was older from what I gathered, so I didn’t want to seem too pushy. “ Sir, how are you today? This is my first time here at Planet Fitness and, I was hoping that you could tell me a little bit about your experience, likes, dislikes, and what you think about Planet Fitness.”
“Sure”, he said, looking directly at me with blue confident eyes, centered closely to his sharp pointed nose, dripping with sweat. His body, red and wrinkled shows signs of aging and weathering I’ll call him a veteran. I see perseverance, encouragement, and pride.
He says, “It’s a stress reliever, I’ve been a member long before this place, was called Planet Fitness. I’ve used just about every piece of equipment, here! You gotta pace yourself; any of these young guys around here can assist you. Wellll, that’s about it, It’s a great place to workout no matter who you are” (adding a slight smile of encouragement for a potential member). He continues his pattern and strides vigorously to the next machine. Thanking him for his time and opinion, I move along.
Planet Fitness, judgment free, I don’t think so. Signs that say no hands on glass keep potential outbreaks of shattering one’s unattractive reflection to a minimal or none. The staff continuously wipes the mirrors with cloths filled with a unique solution made up of perspiration and Windex, making make-believe circles as a source of entertainment.
Why are there so many mirrors? And why do they have to be sooooo clean? It’s definitely a way to keep the members coming. We all know mirrors add pounds to you.
They know that there are those of you whose reflection will help you to find your way back to Planet Fitness: The Fitness Frontier.
Young, old, beginners, regulars,
red, silver, blue exercise balls,
True stretch workout resembles a child’s jungle gym
model traffic lights, green light, red light,
the express workout becomes an adult playground
Tanning beds, my skin color without the stigma attached
Shades of calming purple and yellow, the color of energy
Planet Fitness, the fitness frontier
Post a Comment