Gym Guy, Part II
To give you an idea of my general level of self confidence, I assume that I look exactly like this at all times.
The Planet Fitness in Inglewood was next door to a Vons
supermarket in a relatively new shopping center that was completely encircled
by a concrete and wrought iron fence, which offered decent protection from
Inglewood’s robust criminal element and excellent protection from zombies,
should a Dawn of the Dead situation have occurred while I
was at the gym.
Sitting there in the parking lot, staring at the gym, my
fears of getting shot in Inglewood subsided and my general gym-related fears
returned. It was one thing to decide to go get a gym membership and get buff
when I was sitting on my ass at home with pastries well within reach; here in a
parking lot that was probably a shooting location for Training
Day, it was a horse of a different color (and weight class).
How can they guarantee that it’s truly a ‘judgment
free zone’? What if you go in there and people start judging you anyway,
silently? You know what you look like when you exercise.
You’d judge you. And you know damn well they probably
wouldn’t turn Helpful Dude away if he was willing to pay for a membership –
their loyalty is to their shareholders, not dorky guys like you. Look, why
don’t you just head into Vons, buy a couple pounds of thick cut bacon, head
home, crack open a Strongbow, and just make this Sunday a tight
butthole?
Sometimes I think I spend more time sitting in The Mystery
Wagon psyching myself up to do things than I do actually driving it.
Since I’d already driven all the way to Inglewood, I
reasoned that I’d probably hate myself for about a week if I didn’t go in and
at least look at the gym. Of course, I knew I would probably also hate myself
if I went in and started exercising only to get a cheerful lesson from The
Helpful Dude. I was looking at self loathing no matter what I did, so on an
impulse I threw open the door of The Mystery Wagon and started briskly walking
towards the door of Planet Fitness – at the very least, I was burning some
calories by walking, right?
I stepped inside and found myself in a fairly well
appointed, spacious gym, full of incredibly ripped black and Hispanic men
running on the treadmills and pumping serious iron on the weight machines.
I stood there on the threshold for longer than I’d like to
admit, staring out at this vast room full of exercise equipment being used by
minorities who were sculpted to perfection. Not only was I without a doubt the
least athletic person there, I was also the only white guy.
Seeing as I’m from Oregon, I’m not used to being in
situations where I’m the only white person, and I didn’t want this – me
clumsily learning how to get into shape at a gym – to be the first time I had
to shoulder the burden of being a minority and representing my race. Because,
let’s be honest: I reinforce a lot of negative stereotypes about white people.
I’m like the Flavor Flav of white people.
I mean, look at me – I’ve got no sense of style, I can’t
dance, I’m weak, I’m awkward, I’m usually having serious anxiety about
something, I have a blog, and I’m pretty much one bar mitzvah away from being
Jewish. Sheltered white kids in the suburbs assume all black people are like
Snoop Dogg; I didn’t want to give these working class urban folks the
impression that all white people were like Truman Capps.
I feel like I owe my race more than that. Being white has
benefitted me in innumerable ways – it’s kind of my duty as a white person to
not fulfill all those stereotypes, but try as I might, I’m at my very whitest
when I’m engaging in some sort of physical activity.
Ideally, I’d walk into a bar near some HBCU college campus
on trivia night and get drafted onto one of the teams. And even if my team
didn’t win, we’d all have a great evening and buy each other drinks and get
drunk together and bridge all kinds of cultural gaps.
That’s when I’m at my best – in a bar,
drinking, answering questions about pop culture. I do white people
proud when I’m in a bar. Not at a gym, though. Never at a
gym.
What’s more, I could see other people filling out the
membership paperwork, and I started to ask myself if I was really that
committed to fitness. Did I really want to get up early every day and add 12
miles to my 40 mile a day commute so I could drive to the ghetto and work out
in what is supposedly a judgment free zone just because of my own neuroses?
What I realized, looking at the gym, is that even though it
was well suited to my psychological needs on paper, it was still far from the
perfect gym for me.
The perfect gym for me, I now realize, is a room with one
treadmill and one weight machine, and I am the only member. When I show up, the
staff pulls curtains over all the windows, leaves, and locks the door behind
them, and then I am exercising completely alone, where nobody can see me and
even start to begin to think about how stupid I look, thus freeing me from
having to think about how stupid they probably think I look.
“Can I help you, sir?” One of the staff members at the front
desk asked, smiling widely.
“Nope!” I said, probably too loud, and all but ran back to
my car and my boxes of pastries.
Truman Capps anticipates the next step in this process being a P90X blog.