Why I hate the gym

I arrive excited to work out--proud of myself that I've made it here--sure that I am going to burn some serious calories and trim down my rather manish legs.

Jogging up the stairs to the Cardio Room, I consider which machine I will do first: the treadmill or the elliptical. The treadmill, I decide, since it always wears me out. I'll follow that up with a slow workout on the elliptical, and I'll be good to go.

But as I enter the Cardio Room, I stop dead in my tracks.

Every single machine in the place is in motion. Not only do I not have an option between a treadmill and an elliptical--I have no options at all. Even the lame stair stepper in the corner is in use.

The man at the front desk once told me that the gym gets the busiest at the beginning of March.

"Why?" I'd asked.

"Spring Break," he'd responded. "I guess people think that a few weeks of working out will help them squeeze back into their bikinis."

Stupid bikinis, I think, standing against the wall and waiting for a machine to open up. I hate waiting.

As the minutes pass, I start to become impatient, and as I become impatient, I also become mean and overly critical. Why would someone come to the gym to walk on a treadmill? She's not even breaking a sweat because she's too glued to her dumb Twilight book, I scoff smugly, just sure that my workout will put hers to shame.

Still waiting...

Reaching back to adjust my pony tail, I feel something unexpected at the nape of my neck. Dang it. My shirt is on inside out, and I have a conspicuous tag sticking out. Oh that's just great, but there's no way I am losing my spot in line to go to the bathroom to turn it right side out.

Fiiiinnallly, a treadmill opens up, and I make a beeline for it, before someone else grabs it. It's not the ideal machine--the television seems to be broken and stuck on only one channel, and the skinny girl beside me is wearing spandex capris and a sports bra (who wants to work out next to that?)--but it's better than nothing.

After hanging my sweatshirt by the hood on the back of the television, I get going at a slow jog and put in my head phones. To my dismay, the channel that the T.V. is stuck on is...The Food Channel. Yes, the Food Channel. Somehow, jogging to scenes of homemade pizza, chocolate chiffon pie, and fettucine alfredo seems somewhat counterproductive, and I soon find myself salivating and plotting a pit stop at Dunkin' Doughnuts on the way home.

As I huff and puff at my 6 mph pace, coughing and dying and embarassing myself, I sneak a quick glance at the timer of Miss Spandex next to me. Dang it, I think, noticing that she's been running 8 mph for 50 minutes and has burned 800 calories. Go home, Skinny, you're going to look just perfect in your bikini!

She pretends not to notice me looking at her stats but nonchalantly increases her speed a little.

I turn back to my t.v. and try to ignore her.

A commercial for Ghirardellis new peanut butter squares flashes across my screen, and I remove my earphones and pull the hood of my sweatshirt down to cover the t.v. so I can no longer be tormented.

This really is torture.

After a mere 10 minutes, I find myself walking at a pace slower than the Twilight girl, wondering what happened to the ambition I came to the gym with.

Oh well...time for Dunkin' Doughnuts.