gym love

I love early mornings at the gym.
The air is still fresh with the smell of bleach, without the heavy stench of sweat and testosterone that invades by noon. The machines are open except for the old professor on the elliptical in the corner left. I plug my headphones in and let CNN drone out the sound of my breathing. Everything is so ordered in gym, the ellipticals in the center, surrounded by a hub of free weights and bench presses. Is it bad that I prefer this world of black plastic and coated metal to the roaming across the hills and valleys of New Hampshire? I love machines that tell you exactly how many miles I have run, machines that calculate my heart rate, strides taken, and calories burned, and everything to the tenth decimal place as well. I feel like I am working out, that I am getting results, because numbers cannot lie. Yet I tell myself that I love the outdoors, I love watching dragonflies hover over stagnant ponds, their wings beating faster then their hearts, I love how ice cracks beneath your shoes in the winter and how ants toil together in lines, never missing a beat. But when it comes down to exercising, I prefer my metal womb, precise and true.



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Categories: Daily