Last night I worked out at my gym for the first time in a few weeks. It felt good.
I’ve been working out off and on since my early 30s, but I’ve never been a gym rat. I don’t really like gyms. Nothing busts a male ego like grunting and groaning on a weight machine only to have the next person in line, a hot young female, effortlessly pump out three sets at a higher weight amount.
In fact, I dropped gym memberships several years ago in favor of my home treadmill and dumbbells. But I decided recently that I needed more equipment and more direction and at that same time a new fitness center opened nearby with a $10/month membership fee – considerably less than my last gym.
Last night I noticed that one third of the people huffing and puffing are obviously older and heavier than I am. Woohoo! And grunting and groaning is not allowed in this gym – at least not the kind of explosive body-builder grunts that are often followed by the clanging sound of dropping the bar after doing five reps too many. In fact, this fitness center’s slogan is “no judgement zone.” All ages and sizes are in there every day and there is no intimidation.
My goals are simple – lose 25 pounds, gain balance and upper body strength and increase stamina. I’m in no hurry. I didn’t get out of shape in three months so why expect to be back in shape in three months. I’m shooting for December as the month to hit that weight loss number. I don’t particularly care about looking buff, but if I hit my other goals, well … I’ll look pretty good for a fiftysomething.
As part of my newfound strategy of doing things just because I want to and not over-thinking it, I plan to hit the gym five times a week. I want it to be enough of a habit that it feels odd to miss a day or two. It’s just part of going home every night. I like how I feel when I’m done. I don’t need any other reason.