The gym hits back

Illustration by Killian Goodale-Porter.
Dylan Hostetter, Executive Editor
New Year’s resolutions are just another promise we don’t intend to keep — like when I was a kid and promised my parents I would floss, or now that I’m an adult and promise my dentist I’ll get him that $100 I owe him. But I resolved this year would be different. This year I would stick to my resolutions.
The main issue I have found is people try to take on too many resolutions at once, and sometimes they even conflict. Like, if I resolved to travel more, how could I also resolve to save money? Or, if I resolved to be nicer, how could I also resolve to crush all my enemies? I had to pick just one: Exercise.
To be honest though, I never have been one for exercise. Once in a fourth grade gym class, a dodgeball hit me so hard in the gut my shorts fell down and my shoes untied. That day, amongst the raucous laughter of my pants-wearing peers, I swore off entering a gym ever again.
But this year, I decided to pull my shorts back up, tie my shoes and really make the effort. Good thing for me, I get a free student membership to Cary Street Gym. And boy is there nothing better than a free membership. Well, unless you count a free donut, or maybe even a free sticker. Man, free stuff rocks.
From the moment I stepped foot in the gym I felt energized. Against the caution of a gym attendant, I immediately began climbing the rock wall. I made it about 10 feet before my arms took on the consistency of freshly-boiled linguini and I fell to the mat.
The attendant recommended I start with some weights, and I recommended a nice place his mother could visit. This was my resolution, not his. I was the one who got to decide what I did next — so I went to lift some weights.
I pretty soon realized the main problem with weights: they’re heavy. How was I supposed to pick this thing up over and over again? It was like 50 pounds! As I looked upon all the buff men and women around me, I couldn’t help but be a bit intimidated — and jealous.
I mean, it sure is easier to lift heavy weights with those big, glistening muscles. How did they get those things anyways? And how could I get them? Something about it wasn’t fair, I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
I started doing some curl-ups with the five pound weights, and after several reps I was breaking a sweat and feeling pretty good about myself. That was until I looked to my left and saw a 75-year-old woman going to town with a pair of 20 pound weights — and her wrinkly forehead was bone dry.
I decided to put a pause on the weights and instead hit the machines. I approached a strange-looking one with rubber ropes and handles. Having no clue what I was doing, I glanced around me only to meet the critical eye of the gym attendant. I knew I had to figure it out on my own.
I grabbed the handles and sat on the bench, pulling with all my might. Nothing happened. I then stuck my feet through the handles and pulled. The machine actually started to move a bit — a twang of excitement shot through my chest. Next thing I knew, the ropes ripped my feet out from under me, sending me flying and dangling in the air by my ankles.
I tried my best to free myself, but every move I made just got me more tangled. Dangling horizontal in the air, I looked like a rotisserie chicken wrapped in rubber bands. Next thing I knew, the entire gym was gathered around me, staring.
“Somebody’s having a day aren’t they?” said the gym attendant.
“Your mom and I had a day yesterday,” I said mockingly.
His eyes narrowed. To his side, the muscle grandma shook her head at me disapprovingly. I realized I had gone too far.
“Well would you look at that, my shift just ended,” said the attendant as he removed his name tag.
He turned and walked away and soon the rest of the crowd scattered too, leaving me dangling there alone until one of the night janitors took pity on me and cut me down. I tried to slip him a $10 bill for doing me a solid, but he refused on account of the fact he felt sad for me.
When it was all said and done, I wasn’t able to keep my New Year’s resolution after all — I was quickly banned from the gym and sent a bill for all of the equipment damages. I don’t know what hurt worse, the broken promise to myself or the fact I had to sell my car to pay for that exercise machine.
If there was a lesson to be learned, it could be that gyms are scary places. You could get hit so hard with a dodgeball your shorts fall down, or you could even see an oddly muscular old woman that makes you deeply question things about yourself. You just never know.
Editor’s Note: The characters and events depicted in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.