Breathe in that formerly fresh air, the kind that once lived freely outside in the world. Unbothered innocent Exhale into the now stale, humid, borderline soup environment. Welcome to Gym Class Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday at 6:00 PM Sharp. My holy trinity of planned suffering. I've loathed working out since even elementary school gym class. The place where they made us run laps is punishment and and where the dodge balls were somehow always aimed at my face. Probably deservingly. A location historically associated with trauma, pretending to tie my shoe and wheezing. I'm pretending I have asthma for seven minutes so that I don't have to participate. And now, now it's part of my weekly routine. Now as an adult, it's something I've planned my life around. How could this possibly have happened to a 30 pound overweight little old me. A man whose only consistent cardio for years had been sprinting to the microwave to catch it before it beeped and woke up the whole house at three in the morning. Like most things in life, it started with love, or in my case, the absence of it. The nagging voice of my self-appointed millennial mom at work stayed echoing in my ears. Focus on yourself and be the person you want to be and the person you're meant to be will find you. Gotta love yourself to love others and it's only up from here, bud. I don't want up. I want down. I want to be down on my couch. I want to put down some ice cream. I want it to be downing beverages with the boys. Up. Up is hard. Up is not fun. What's up? Nothing. Nothing is up, but space. But I nodded. I agreed. I pretended to absorb her wisdom because the only way a millennial will leave you alone is if you allow them to think they momentarily made the world a better place. And boy did that whole become the person you wanna be. Thing happen faster than I thought it would. Began with a free trial, a prick of the gateway drug of fitness. The gym equivalent of First taste is on the house, just three little days. Three harmless, no risk, no obligation group classes. That's all. I thought I could use the extra encouragement, mostly because I loathe working out. I'm not built for suffering. If humans were split into hunters and gatherers, I would've been the designated guy to cook up their religion and make sure everyone else stayed on task still. I showed up. I even tried to stretch. Touching your toes. Sounds like an easy request until you're asked to actually do it in public. With a room full of strangers all pretending not to watch you. My hamstring screamed immediately. My lower back filed a formal complaint. I have never in my adult life felt so acutely aware of where my stomach folds were located, but then mid stretch, mid struggle, I glanced to my left standing next to me. Was an extremely intelligent looking woman. The kind of woman who reads books, made of real paper. The kind of woman who has an indoor plant that's thriving, The kind who wears sleek workout gear lululemon. She looked over, she smiled. She started a conversation with me. Right there in the middle of me trying and failing to grab my ankles love, or the hallucinated version caused by my lack of oxygen ballooned. This isn't that bad, I thought. Matter of fact, I think I'm low key already getting more flexible. Then it was time for the actual workout. The part I had conveniently not thought about the trainer a man who didn't understand my suffering, used his pre-workout field of energy to shout, get in groups of three before I could even scan the room for someone at my more appropriate fitness level. Ideally, someone who looked like they had also stopped by the Taco Bell on the way for a quick chalupa, I heard, Hey, you wanna be our third? I looked up. I imagine cocaine feels like this, hypothetically, a rush in my head and sheer excitement beside her. Her equally stunning friend, both easily eight and a half out of tens, both clearly in shape. Do I wanna be your third? More than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life, my validation levels skyrocketed to places they had no business going. Is it possible I can capture the lighting in this gym and project it on me everywhere I go? Is it possible? The only thing I needed in life was a little effort. That delusion lasted exactly two minutes into the workout. They killed me, absolutely obliterated me. Tapped out early, my joints begged for mercy. Sweat poured on me in areas I genuinely didn't know I had. I'm pretty sure the stars I was seeing at the end of each quote unquote movement were not supposed to be a part of the movement. I couldn't breathe correctly for the rest of the week. I mean that literally my inhaling pattern didn't reset until Thursday. Every deep inhale was met with a small coughing outburst, but between each gas for air, I noticed the love in the air. Or maybe that was dizziness. Hard to say, but there was something, something powerful with each source step I took the next morning, I was reminded of the love. I was reminded of my close proximity to love. That gym was suddenly a place, not of pain, but of possibility. I couldn't wait to go back. So I returned. I returned and used up every single one of my three day free trial pass, like a man obsessed with fitness. I showed up silently, resent the next hour of pure physical misery, and then reward myself with almost up to 15 minutes sometimes of post-class talk with an intelligent eight and a half out of 10. It was quite honestly the best thing going for me at the time, and then I did the unthinkable. I committed to a five class pass for over a hundred dollars, a hundred dollars on purpose, but the promise of endorphins, self-improvement, and maybe hypothetically love. It was too strong. So I kept going in every class. I got destroyed physically and reborn socially. I dragged myself through squats, lunges, burpees, and whatever fresh hell the trainer invented that day. Then I'd stand outside, panting, yapping, breathlessly about podcasts, travel, and I'd actually been meaning to get more active, which was not true. But if they wanna go hiking, I want to go hiking. I have never done hiking. But love makes you lie even to yourself. And then one day drunk on validation and false confidence. I took the plunge. I signed a one year long contract. A full year committed, locked in financially shackled to wellness. I started outta that office like I had just made an investment in my future. Like I had just purchased life insurance like I was a new man. Like I was seconds away from becoming someone who's just the phrase rise and grind, unironically someone who carries one of those shaking bottles a one gallon jug of water, and then the next week. She vanished. Just gone. No warning, no. So no slow fade. She simply started attending a different class, maybe one with better lighting or less sweating, or fewer men who gasped like Victorian fainting ladies, whatever the reason. She was gone for my life and gone for my gym slot forever. And there I was Alone. Alone and committed for 12 full months. No, eight and a half to chat with no gym crush. No perceived aura of romance, just me, a trainer who openly loads me and a contract that cannot break. Now all I have are larger muscles, a much better cardiovascular system, and the lingering knowledge that I got bamboozled absolutely hoodwinked into a gym membership. By the love of my life, do I feel healthier? Sure. Do I feel stronger? Probably. Do I still fantasize about her walking into that class one day and saying, Hey, you look different. Obviously I'm human, but mostly I've learned a very valuable lesson. Self-care is great. Fitness is important. Love can be motivating, but nothing. And I do mean nothing. Ropes a man into a 12 month gym contract faster than a free trial. Faster than a free trial and a warm smile of an eight and a half doing burpees next to him, the muscles. It was, it's never about, it never has been. It never will be about the muscles. If you'd be so kind to prove that you are a real life person that listened to my stuff, please email me atAustin@ramblerlive.com. I swear I'll email back.