Measuring Up: Middle School or the Gym?

Working out feels more like a middle school the more you look around.

The Cliques:

• “The Athletes” are usually huddled around the free weights or lifting machines with their gallon jug of water. They’re above the standard dress code regulations: the guys (cutoff shirts) and girls (shorts) allow for an impromptu science lesson...it’s like anatomy lab in there with what’s viewable.
• “The Intellects” are usually on the reclined stationary bikes reading the newspaper or something on their Nook/Kindle. They’re more eco-friendly so they go that extra mile and utilize the drinking fountains instead of plastic water bottles. Yet, they are conscientious of those around them and stick to their “3 Mississippi’s.”
• “The Socialites/High Rollers” are usually the ones that take the classes such as yoga or spin. They thrive on that community building and bringing a prop like a yoga mat or the clip shoes for the stationary bikes. Usually they have name brand bottled water (SmartWater is the Hollister of bottled waters...I’m not even sure if Hollister is what’s currently hip, but if you just corrected me as you read that then, my friend, you’re this clique, and I feel judged.) They bring their own towel to dab away the sweat. They realize that the typical paper towel the LA Fitness tries to offer is like sandpaper to their porcelin skin.

Although I try to advertise myself as “an athlete” I realize I don’t into any of the specific groups I listed above. Just like middle school I can’t settle on a clique probably because mom encouraged me to love and be friends with everyone even if they scared me. I take extra Mississippi’s at the water fountain or have been known to carry Target brand bottled waters. I wipe my sweat with a paper towel. I don’t read while I workout, I listen to music and people watch. I abide by the dress code. All of the groups, because of this, take turns snubbing me.

The equipment was even an emotional rollercoaster and aided the insecurities my peers had already placed on me. At the end of my elliptical/bike experiences I was knocked down a few pegs with this message:



(Pedal Faster?!?!?! I imagine it’s the same discouraging feeling you get post swirly or after being shoved in a locker.)

Then, feeling like I wasn’t good enough and a visit to the counselor’s office might be in order, the treadmill saved me with a warm fuzzy: