Even though I'm over fifty, I still groan at the vivid memory of high school gym class which, for me, was an exercise (no pun intended) in torture. Three times a week, we were required to climb ropes (useful on a resume), perform push-ups (read: lie face down on the floor), jump on trampolines (helpful if you're planning a career with Ringling Brothers) and run around tracks (read: in circles.)
On top of that, my regulation shorts were always three sizes too big (the elastic waistband fit nicely under my armpits) and the locker room smelled like industrial-strength chicken noodle soup.
Apart from the horrific odor, the locker room was dangerous. The shower tiles were as slippery as Richard Nixon, plantar wart viruses festered in puddles and the bullies (two future neurosurgeons named Moose and Rex) found it profoundly hilarious to snap wet towels at the lily white posteriors of the smaller kids.
Unfortunately, you couldn't graduate from my high school unless you passed Phys Ed, which meant that Einstein probably would have had to repeat his senior year forever.
But I wasn't a sedentary kid. I played baseball (position: far side of the homerun fence) and rode a bike to school. But I didn't do those things to be fit. I did them because they were fun (and I didn't have to wear Hulk Hogan's shorts.)
Once I hit adulthood, I eschewed health clubs. My wife goes to the Spectrum Club three-hundred times a week, and when she's not working out, she does Zumba (that's an African country, right?) and Pilates (which I first thought was an Italian restaurant chain named after a certain, ahem, Roman prefect.)
To improve my physique, she bought me a six-month gym membership and five sessions with a personal trainer for my fiftieth birthday (I would've preferred a set of potholders.) It cost a small fortune, so being the frugal type (read: Scrooge), I went.
The minute I walked into the place, I hated it. The work-out room was a noisy sweat factory featuring hazardous-looking machinery (Torquemada must have had a yard sale.) A Wagnerian chorus of horrible grunting sounds and clanking metal added to the ambiance. Narcissistic muscle-bound guys stared at themselves in mirrors while lifting hand weights. The only attraction was the row of Spandex-clad women of all ages working on the cardio machines, but they were all watching Fox News on TVs that were suspended above them, or flirting with the Incredible Hulks that paraded by.
Lisa, my personal trainer, was pretty, but annoyingly bubbly and laughed every time she said something. ("Welcome to Spectrum, chuckle, chuckle. My name is Lisa, guffaw, guffaw. Let's see if we can give you a heart attack on the treadmill, chortle, chortle.")
The first day, she had me lie on a huge red ball (I fell off), try a Stairmaster (I asked if there was an elevator since the machine wasn't getting me upstairs), lift weights (I dropped one on her foot), row a boat (that was apparently in dry dock) and manipulate several machines with my bare hands (requiring two bottles of Purell per session.)
The locker room reminded me of high school. Same nauseating odors (now adult strength); random piles of damp towels crawling with all manner of bacteria; guys punching each other in the stomach to test their abs; lethal shower tiles (work out, get healthy, slip in locker room, break neck.)
I finished the five sessions and returned about once a week. Whenever Lisa saw me struggling on one of the machines, she'd point to her abs as if to say, "That's the goal."
Seriously?
Why do I need abs and bulging biceps? I'm not that vain. They'll eventually turn into flab anyway. Have you seen a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger lately?
Here's an idea: If you want to stay fit, forget health clubs. Do something useful. Walk to the grocery store, buy ice cream and race home before it melts. Bring your desktop to Starbucks. Carry an elderly person across the street and back sixteen times. Wash your car with a Q-tip. Make your chiropractor wealthy by having Kama Sutra sex with your spouse or partner. Whatever. Who needs to drive to a health club so you can walk ten miles on a treadmill and end up exactly where you started?
Anyway, after my membership expired, I quit. For one thing, I was spending too much money on Purell (even Costco's ten gallon jug is expensive.) For another, I could never find a gym wardrobe (short of a burqa) that would adequately conceal my lack of impressive musculature.
But worst of all, there was one image I just couldn't get out of head -- Albert Einstein discovering the Theory of Relativity while pedaling a stationary bike.