The College Gym

It's Still Tuesday Somewhere

I used to belong to this really great gym. And better yet, it was completely free. No, I was not sneaking into a Hilton with an old room key. Those gyms are mediocre at best. This gym was always clean, never crowded, had ample TVs mounted above their spotless mirrors, Peletons to pepper into my repertoire every so often, and above average small talk. Absurdly, this was all for free. All because it was housed in my former place of work. But hence the word former being used to describe this place of work, I had to say goodbye to the perfect gym. 

What a shame it was to leave. But I’m not surprised it didn’t last. Because even if I was a member of the perfect gym forever, I inevitably would’ve grown tired of it. After all, it’s a third space for exercise. And exercise is voluntarily suffering. A hollow recreation of actions once considered essential for survival before survival depended on how well the bush at your front door hides Amazon packages. I believe, in order to live a long and healthy life, we must continually come up with new ways to forget how hollow the pursuit of fitness truly is. But after leaving my perfect gym, I wasn’t liquid enough to join a proper health club nor was I horny enough to join a run club. Instead, I was staring down a nightly ground workout at the public park or the supposed safer option, a membership at an around the clock gym. No, I’m still not referring to the Hilton. Although, now I’m starting to think I should give that a go. I’m instead referring to 24 Hour Fitness. There’s a branch up the road from my apartment and membership was cheap enough - so I gave it a visit.

I really was ready to love it. Because I knew I didn’t need no softass cucumber water to pump iron and I surely didn’t need some candyass sauna to shvitz it out after. It was about damn time I got back to the basics. Four walls and iron. My AirPods and a self-help audiobook from the public library could take care of the rest. But then I actually stepped foot in my local 24 Hour Fitness and unfortunately, I was wearing moisture wicking fabric instead of a Chernobyl suit. Maybe yours is slightly more pleasant but my 24 Hour was nothing short of a vile around the clock establishment. My recommendation to you, Karl Snaft, current CEO of 24 Hour Fitness? Take down all of your signs and replace them with ones that say 23 Hour Fitness. Use that invaluable hour each day to at least try and minimize the scent of plague that emanates from your rubber floors.

But then again, maybe I am just soft.  So pampered by my previous perfect gym to never again simply be content with four walls and iron. At my college house, Grandmas, we decided to purchase a rusted bench press for our dirt backyard, or as it was known from there on out - the prison yard. We’d spend hours in our ribbed white partner protectors, putting up PRs on the bench, as the treacherous drops of Big Booty Mix 11 blared like a war chant throughout the prison yard. Now look at me. Just five years later, irked by the sweat stains on a row machine and the absence of a complimentary Theragun provided for use after.

Yet I still wasn’t ready to bite the bullet and upgrade my third space . I wasn’t yet prepared to shell out my weekend cash on an Equinox membership. Not yet desperate enough to go run clubbing on Abbot Kinney, just on the off chance I meet a marketing coordinator interested in sharing overpriced Brussels sprouts with on a weeknight.

So I thought I was out of options. But for whatever reason, I remembered one gym in town that had just about everything I was looking for. A gym I once belonged to before growing tired of, inevitably, and going in on a prison yard bench press off Craigslist (forgot to mention we bought it off Craigslist). I paid a visit to my alma mater’s athletic center. 

As it turns out, my college gym very well could be the move. It’s incredibly clean, has all the screens I need, is never too crowded, and exceptionally priced for an alumnus on a blogger’s budget. And for anyone accusing me of omitting the above average small talk criteria because you’re certain I have ulterior motives AKA hanging around my old stomping grounds, chatting up marketing majors who’re blissfully unaware of the mid-twenties dating/Brussels sprout industrial complex they’ll soon enter into…I’ll stop you right there. I talk to absolutely nobody. I make eye contact with absolutely nobody. To put it simply, it’s against the rules. But while fraternization at the college gym is surely a fitness faux pa, my membership is arguably not. You see, at twenty-five years of age, I fall exactly in the sweet spot for post-graduation membership. I look young enough not to draw attention but I’m old enough to be recognized by absolutely nobody (other than fans of Elevator Pitch, of course). I’m a stateless agent at the free weights. A horse with no name on the treadmills. A God Damn Independent in the Yoga studio. All while enjoying a luxury fitness experience at a fraction of the cost. 

And while no eye contact is allowed, I’ll admit there’s some world class people watching opportunities. It’s a thriving social scene where fortunately nobody knows who I am, but they surely know each other. The devious mix of college insecurity, status posturing, and lack of clean laundry is a recipe for truly absurd gym fits - mostly on the menswear side. I saw a gentleman in the machine weights section with frosted tips tucked under a beanie, working out in Uggs. I spotted a fella at the squat rack, putting up absolute numbers in a pair of designer jeans with a large white trucker hat on that read “Victorian Later?”. I couldn’t make it up if I tried. Because friends, this my current third place for wellness and I’m definitely not bored of it just yet. I do realize nobody wants this…but guess what? The college gym is my new iron synagogue. You’re looking at its new rabbi.

See you next Tuesday (morning, hopefully)