Sights and Sounds of a Gym-head

For a very long time, I have been avoiding, poo-pooing and overall dissing the following activity. I have even gone so far as saying I would never EVER participate in it, and make fun of people who paid to go to this place. It seemed absolutely absurd to me that people paid hundreds of dollars for something they could do for free in their own homes or neighborhoods. I promised myself I would never be one of those idiots.

Welp.

I am a sheep and I fell in line with most others my age.

I am officially a Gym-head*.

  * I'm pretty sure I just coined that term. So copyrights to me bitches!

I joined the trend of most post-New Years resolution people and joined a gym. Actually let me rephrase that--I was coerced and tricked into joining a gym.

My younger sister joined LAFitness last month, and was raving about a cardio-body sculpt class she took. She said the instructor literally kicked her ass but felt great afterwards. With her new membership, she was given day passes and wanted me to take one of these classes with her. Naturally, I was intrigued and decided to go. Little did I know that I wouldn't be able to leave the gym until I sat down and talked to someone about joining said gym--when I say I couldn't leave, I mean I couldn't leave; my driver's license was kidnapped the minute I stepped over the LAFitness threshold and wasn't returned to me until I sat down and talked to a Sales guy about my "gym options".  I went into this "meeting" thinking I'd let the guy talk but there was no way I was joining. He went thru his song and dance talking about my options and blah blah blah, and I guess I kind of zoned out because before I knew it I was handing over my debit card and signing my name on their liability clause.

I swear the endorphins made me do it!

It was only when I stepped outside and the cold night air hit me that I realized "Shit. I just spent $261.59 on a gym membership I didn't even want?"

Oh well. Can't go back on it now.

In the long run, I'm glad I did it. I need to get my fat ass moving again. It's been a long few months and I'm starting to feel squishy in all the wrong areas. Plus the summer is only so far away--and with that means bathing suit season. And at this moment I'd rather eat my own toes than lay on a beach in a bathing suit. For real. I currently feel like a beached whale.

So really the amount of money I was tricked into paying is as good of a persuasion as any to go kill myself in the gym every night. If I just shelled out all that money, you bet your ass I'm getting my money's worth. Meaning, I'm going as much as I possibly can. Every spare moment I've had lately, I've been going to the gym--except for a 2 week period when I had/was recovering from the flu. Mostly after work or on weekend mornings, I've been hauling my ass to the gym. And trust me it's not an easy haul---it's actually an inner struggle most nights. I literally sit at my desk at work every day debating with myself--like the little angel and devil sitting on my shoulders, saying "Yes go" then "You're too tired. Go home and rest!"

Literally, my decision changes hour to hour. And trust me, there's nothing I'd like more after a long day at work then come home, eat a great dinner and lay in bed all night watching TV. But doing that gets me nowhere and I very purposely go to the gym straight from work because I know if I step one foot in my door, there's no way I'm leaving.

I will say that I am pretty out of shape. I've been focusing mainly on cardio and running, thinking its the best way to tone and lose a few lbs--plus I'm doing a Junior Mud Run with my girlfriends in June, so I might as well start training now or else I will die--but I haven't actually run in quite a while. It's probably been a year since I ran full out and the first few workouts were killer. Almost thought I was going to fall off the treadmill a few times, which would have been quite embarassing! Learned the trick to it is if you start to get tired/out of breath push the PAUSE/STOP button. DO NOT try to quickly jump to the sides of the treadmill. Trust me, I almost ate it doing it. And the fall will be a helluva lot worse!

Pretty proud of myself though, I've gotten up to 2 miles and haven't died yet. Sure, I've had to stop for drink breaks and to catch my breath but 2 miles is still 2 miles.

Now being naturally nosey and a cynical person, I've taken notice of a few.....obscurities at the gym that I feel the need to address at this moment.

1. Girls who dress up for the gym

Now I understand if people are coming straight  from work to get their "gym on"--which I count myself as one of them--but to come to the gym all done up and pretty seems pretty senseless to me. Like full on make-up is the most ridiculous thing in my opinion, considering you come to the gym to sweat (at least I do). Honestly it's a waste of money. Maybe I'm one of the minority who does not wear make-up to work--I work with a bunch of men who basically look at me funny every time I try to look nice for work--but reapplying before the gym is just stupid. And trust me, these girls are not wearing makeup from that morning. I ran next to a woman last week who, when she wiped her face on her sweat towel midway thru her run, literally wiped away her face with the towel. Her foundation, bronzer, mascara and blush were all smeared into her white towel, leaving her face a hot mess. It was actually pretty gross if you ask me.

Now I guess the only argument for wanting to look nice at the gym is because it is a co-ed activity and some people actually meet people at the gym. Personally, I don't know how this is possible unless you are actively going to the gym to meet someone. Most people are so in the zone with their work-outs--like I am, when I'm not people watching--that they could care less who is around them, as long as they get off their machine in the alloted time. Honestly, if I was ever approached at the gym I'd think the person was CRAZY! No one is attracted to sweat or out of breath people. Sorry.

2.  Girls who WALK on treadmills

I've been watching this set of girls for a few days now. They always come in together, in full gym gear--yoga pants, latest Nike sneakers, sport bras and tops--but in the midst of intense conversations*.

*I'm only assuming it is an intense conversation because I've never actually heard what is being discussed because my music is always jamming from my earbuds.

They always get treadmills right next to each other and will even go so far as to wait until 2 are available next to each other*.

*Note that they don't workout out on other machines, like most do, until treadmills are vacated. They will stand there and wait, still having said conversation.

I just figured they were very particular and really into their workout. But in reality, the treadmill seems to be an afterthought. Yes, they eventually carry their conversation to the machines but they might as well just stand on them, because the speed they "work-out" on is little more than raising their feet off the revolving track. Literally, the speed is so slow that it'd be a miracle if they worked up a sweat. A turtle could lap them! I leaned over once, conspicuously of course, to check their speed--it was something like 1.2. Not even kidding you.

I figured "Okay. Maybe this is just a warm up."

Nope.

They kept their machines at this pace for the entire 15 minutes that they were on them. I also figured, "Hey, maybe they're going to a class right from this."

Nope.

I watched as they left too, immediately following their "strenuous workout".

Girls who do this bug me. Like don't come to the gym if you're coming only for a chat session or to do a pretend workout. If I'm hauling my cookies all the way to the gym, you bet your ass I'm working out and breaking a sweat. And honestly, these girls are just taking up machines at this point and there is always people waiting. Like you are paying a monthly fee, on top of a yearly fee to just walk on a treadmill? Is there any logic in that people?

3. Aerobics Wear

I thought this was an urban legend.

Women who still wear their Jane Fonda-esque, 80's aerobics outfits to the gym. Complete with tight leggings of bright colors, a body thonged suit that is worn over the leggings and a sweat band that piles their over-crimped and teased hair on top of their heads.

Only something you see in ridiculous comedies where the lead character goes to the gym and sees one of these gym-goers and goffs at how assine the person looks. Or in old work-out magazines or Richard Simmons work-out DVDs. Something that doesn't actually exist in the real world anymore.

All true, until I saw one for myself and I almost fell off the treadmill in utter surprise

I've been trying to snap a picture of this woman (who looks to be about 65) for about 2 weeks now but have been unsuccessful. She appears and the minute I go to grab my phone, she's gone. Like Bigfoot! Or the Loch Ness Monster! I know, very hard to believe but I swear the Aerobics Queen of 1985 goes to LAFitness in Neshaminy, PA!

I'm not saying that Aerobics doesn't exist anymore, in fact it does. LAFitness runs a class every Wednesday at 5 oclock. But not everyone is so appropriately attired. And honestly, I don't even know if this woman participates in that class--I looked once, in an attempt to snap a picture but she wasn't there. I'm also not saying people shouldn't rock these outfits. If you have enough confidence to strut into a gym and workout in this outfit, by all means do it! Seriously, you go girl!

But if you are reading this and believe you are the 1985 Aerobic Queen I am referring to (and really how many of you could there possibly be?), slow down! I'm tryin' ta snap yaw picture!

4. People who work out in jeans

Ok, now this goes back to a grade-school and when I used to play field hockey. My coach very explicitly told us we were not to wear jeans to practice or games. It's hard to run around and be active if you are constricted in a pair of jeans--as jeans do not move with the body very well. Just a no-no all around. If we came to practice in jeans, we weren't allowed to participate in practice. And I can't blame her, it makes complete sense.

So why do really buff guys--who are always grunting and groaning in the weight section of the gym--insist on wearing jeans to their strenuous work-outs?

For the last few weeks, I've watched this one guy in particular work-out in jeans. And not baggy jeans, but tight-fiitting jeans (which is even worse). I kind of thought it was an understood belief and an acceptable practice the world over? Something everyone adheres to. True, this one guy wasn't doing cardio or doing any running of any sort (to my knowledge) but I kind of figure it's just as difficult. In reality, I'd think it'd be more difficult and a little more dangerous. I'd really be afraid of splitting my pants, especially if they are tight to begin with. And jeans stick to your in all the wrong places, which you'd again be in danger of ripping your pants. It's just not fun.

Change your pants dude!


So that's it, blogosphere! My two cents on my new endeavor to get fit and trim. Here's hoping I stick with my work-out plan and one day look like this:

Totally kidding!

Good Riddance

This would be our last Thanksgiving at Bridge Street. The house, nestled in the heart of North East Philadelphia, was sold and for the first time in over 85 years, a non-Diehl/Keegan would call it home. Bridge Street, which was affectionately named after the street it sits on, had been the childhood home to not only my grandmother, but to my mother and her eight brothers and sisters. Everyone made the journey to Philadelphia that year; even Uncle Joe and Aunt Melissa, all the way from Virginia. No one wanted to start this meal, knowing it was the last. But everyone, eventually, took their seats and began. Tears were shed, over the turkey no doubt, but laughs and a few drunken bars of Sinatra--PopPop’s favorite--certainly brightened the mood.

I sat, begrudgingly, at the kids table. I was seventeen at the time and definitely no longer a child, but would most certainly remain so in the eyes of my aunts, uncles, and older cousins. I firmly believe that if your family is too big to sit at one table, which mine definitely was, then tables should not be used. It would avoid the whole separate-ness that, in that moment, I felt. Watching my family, from what felt like a mile away, I could sense the profound loss at this being our last holiday. It may sound ridiculous, it was only a house, but to everyone there, it was so much more. The house, with its red brick, bay-windows, and big white door was everything and had such a past. It stood the test of time! It saw Graduations, Weddings, and Birthdays. It’s the last place anyone saw my Pop-Pop alive. This house grounded all of us; it was our one common bond. The house held so many great memories, that Bridge Street really was part of our family.

                                                                                                                       

I hate Bridge Street.

For as long as I can remember, I never liked my grandparents’ house. I would cry, complain, and beg my parents to let me stay home. Usually, I won the fight - probably just to get me to shut up. Other times they dragged me in the door, kicking and screaming. Once inside, I would talk to no one, but cling to my Mom’s side; eye constantly on the clock, asking to leave every five minutes. The house just eerked me in a way I could never explain. I hated how cold the porch was in winter. I hated the “old-people” smell that stuck to your clothes, and remained days later. I hated the rigid furniture that was never comfortable to sit in. Most of all, I hated going there because we would never leave. Like a Black Hole, Bridge Street pulled you into its grasp and held you there. I just hated everything about that house. I always have. Probably always will.

As I sat there, exiled with the other “non-adults”, my eyes wandered and I started to think. Why did I really hate this house? I should feel drawn to it, like everyone else but I don’t and never have. Everything in life has a beginning, even hatred, but when did this deep loathing start for me?

I was four years old, but I do not remember my Mom being pregnant. I have no memory of seeing her expanding stomach, or hearing that a new sibling was on the way. I was young but it should have been a significant moment in my life. New babies are always a big deal, but it was not. Maybe my parents were superstitious; Mom had given birth to three beautiful girls, but it was a struggle for her to get and remain pregnant. Before my oldest sister, Mom had two
miscarriages and a still borne, whom she still mourns for. It’s as if she held her breath every time her doctor told her, “You’re expecting." She never got her hopes up. She prayed and waited.

The baby was early. Way too early. And Mom was sick. So sick that two and a half months before her due date, she was hospitalized and the doctors feared she would not only lose the baby, but also her life. Quick decisions were made about the three young girls at home. Daddy needed to work, but none of us were in school yet and someone needed to be there. The three of us would stay with relatives. Separately. For as long as Mom was in the hospital.

This is what I remember.

The door opened to Bridge Street and I, clasping Daddy’s hand, stepped into my Grandparents living room, for what I thought was a quick visit. The house had not been a home to children for decades, so there was a stiffness and formality in the air. I knew, even then, not to touch anything. Pop-Pop walked out of the kitchen to where we stood. Words were exchanged; reassurances to keep Daddy’s spirits up. I did not understand. I did not know that Daddy was leaving me here, alone. I did not notice the suitcases he held; his hands gripping the handle for dear life, as if that was what he was doing.

Holding on for dear life.

He knelt down to my eye level, but could not look me in the eye. The pain showed too clearly in his face and he knew that if he looked at me, he would unable to do what he knew he had to.

“Be a good girl, for Daddy," he said, trying to seem strong.

“Daddy, where are you going? Can I come?” I asked innocently, still clutching his hand.

He never answered but dropped my hand, gave me a kiss, a hug, and left the room. As the door to Bridge Street shut behind him, I still felt the warmth of his hand in mine. I stood there, staring after him, still not comprehending what was going on. It was decided, again, that Daddy would stay away; it would be too hard for me and my sisters to see him. More than likely, for him to see us as well. I did not know this. I thought he was running out for a bit, and would be back soon to get me. I was in the dark. Completely alone and separated from everything I knew.

That night, I slept between my Grandparents in their large four-poster bed. I lay there for awhile, trying to fall asleep. I stared at Pop-Pop’s flaring nostrils as he breathed in and out. Slight snores told me he was asleep, as they did from my Grandmother’s direction. Except for that, the room was silent and dark. The dark was ominous; it covered every inch of the room like a tent and even the biggest night light in the world could not quench it. I prayed I would not have to pee during the night; other than the dark, the bed was about four feet off the ground. There was no hope I’d get down alone. I stared straight ahead, hoping sleep would come and Daddy would be here in the morning to take me home.     

Daddy stayed away and I remained at Bridges Street. My grandparents really did not know what to do with me. Both were still working, but my great grandmother was there to keep an eye on me. I was alone a lot and unnerved by the silence in the house; no screaming or singing, just dead silence that scared me. There are specific things I remember about this time. I played with the generic toys Bridge Street had collected over the years, while desperately missing my own, my clothes itched and did not fit. Daddy, in such a hurry, must have packed my little sisters clothes for me, which were two sizes too small. I’d sit there, in my small clothes with toys that were not my own, and play for hours. I created little worlds in my head and acted them out with what ever surrounded me. I took solace from the games. These distractions helped, but I was never far from the door, and home was always on my mind. I stared at the door to Bridge Street for hours, waiting for Mommy to come get me. I opened the door periodically, hoping she was pulling into the driveway, big smile on her face and waving. I cried when she never came.

One day, in particular, my Grandmother took me to my Aunt’s. I walked in the door and saw my little sister sitting on the floor, completely content. I ran past my Aunt and Grandmother and clung to my sister’s tiny, two year old body. I never hugged her on my own before, but that day I would not let go. She was my reminder that I did have a home. She was real. My family was real.

Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks.

“Things are not going well,” the doctors told my family.

Anxiety hung in the air, hovering over our lives like a plague.          

                                                                                                           

I was running a fever and crying. I lay, cradled in my Grandmother’s lap, as my Aunts tried to sooth and figure out what was wrong with me. I was not sick, that was for sure. I had a very high temperature but nothing else seemed to be wrong. I cried and cried and nothing calmed me down. I had had enough. I wanted out. Out of Bridge Street. Out of this situation, that I still did not understand. The room silenced and the only thing heard were my whimpers of pain. I looked towards the door and saw him.

Daddy.

I jumped out of my Grandmother’s lap and ran to him, fever completely diminished as I reached his arms. He swooped me up into a bear hug, and I clung to him. He was real. He was here. I laughed, the first in a long time. He stroked my hair and carried me towards the door, leaving Bridge Street, again. No one was left behind.

“Hey! Hey! Earth to Penny,” a voice called me back to reality, “What’s your problem?”

I turned to my youngest sister Liz, born 2 ½ weeks after my Dad left me at Bridge Street; the day I first felt abandoned, the last time I slept at another person’s house for the next six years, the hardest thing my Dad ever had to do, and the experience that my Mom almost gave her life for.

I smiled back at her and she turned back to her meal.           

I don’t hate Liz. I never could.

           

But I do hate Bridge Street. And that will never change.

Perfect and Mine

The machines are silent,
No buzzing or beeping creeps from their bodies.
And everyone is gone,
The doctors, nurses and good-wishers have retreated
for the night, taking their congratulations with them.
Leaving us in peace.
Finally alone.
Finally here.
Finally mine.

Your daddy is asleep
In the corner with a blanket
Tucked up to his chin.
Exhausted, he hosted your first birthday
To all who entered.
He beamed, he smiled and pointed.
"I made her," he said to all who asked
And also some who didn't.
His pride kept him moving for hours,
And promised he'd stay with you all night.
Sleep now, Daddy.
She's ours now.

I cradle you in my arms, my little glow-worm
Tucked tightly in your pink, cotton blanket
As you sleep.
Holding you so tightly, I savor the closeness
And the pure affection I already feel.
I brush your cheeks with my thumbs,
Feeling their warmth.
I take off your beanie and sweep your peach-fuzz,
Imagining when your hair will grow and
What color ribbons I will tie to their strands.
I breathe in your scent.
That perfect, immaculate smell and
Kiss your forehead lightly.

"You are perfect. You are mine," I whisper
 To your tiny ears, as your eyelids dance
To their very first dream.
I wonder if you can hear me,
If you know how much I love you.
That you are loved and wanted,
The way I never was.
That I am not disappointed,
Nor is Daddy because
You are a girl.
That secretly I wanted a girl,
Not just a healthy baby,
To give you everything my mother couldn't.

I promise everything.
To give you everything.
To never go a day without telling you
That I love you with all my heart and soul.
For you never to shutter when you hear my
Footsteps or my voice.
To support you in every decision
And cheer you through every milestone.
To be the friend and confidant mine
Never had time for.
To be the mother you deserve
In every way possible and
Love you all the more because
You are a girl.
And mine.

Sleep well, my baby girl.
May your dreams be ever sweet and full.
I'll be here when you wake
To take you home
To our new life
And new beginning.