Are we just a bunch of Astros?

When I was 22 and living in Florida, I made the decision to join a gym. This particular "health spa" had a pool, showers, sauna, all the bells and whistles which included, for no extra charge, the icky smells that come with unsanitary shower stalls teeming with foot fungus, mold and previous sweaty bodies. When I was given the grand tour, the very convincing sales person (a gorgeous hunk) was all smiles and full of tales of how this place can transform a member into an Adonis or Aphrodite.
Being 22, I was thinking, "This place is SO cool. Where do I sign????" 

One itty bit of information they neglected to tell me is once my John Hancock was on that piece of paper it was like signing a pact with the devil. Although, it would have been easier to work your way out of Hell than this particular contract.

During this time, I had a change in jobs (my choice) with a significant decrease in salary which meant the health club had to go. It was either that or eating cardboard forever.

I thought, "That handsome guy who signed me up will understand. He was so friendly when I signed the contract."

Let's just say this experience ended up with a collection agency stalking me for years and had me absolutely paranoid I was going to spend the rest of my twenties in a high security prison. I was finished with gyms.

But as time goes on and memory fades, one touches the burner again. When I was 50 years old, I guess I was concerned that all my body parts seemed to be sinking to my knees. I joined another gym that had all the same amenities as the first one. There were plenty of ways to keep in shape and lift those muscles that were heading south. I used the elliptical, joined a step class, and used the pool.....for about a week. I found it was just too difficult for me to keep this up after mentally exhausting days at school. I found the last thing I wanted to do was go to a gym and struggle through a workout watching the young, fit, gym rats lift 500 pounds or run 50 miles on a treadmill or complete a gazillion laps. Pinot Grigio sounded much better.

So I find myself at 60, retired, with no collection agencies pursuing me, and without a valid excuse to avoid the gym. I succumbed.  I joined the one where my husband is a member. In the two years since he joined, he has not come down with any communicable disease or a disgusting fungus so I figured it was safe. It's not a fancy schmancy kind of gym. There are just machines and weights. In other words - it's cheap. Just my style.

 To be honest, my focus at the gym is to increase my upper body strength. Why? So I can help more with the heavy lifting during renovations. I'm serious. Plus, I would like to be able to point my arm with authority and not have my triceps come back and slap me in the face. You know how in some of those African tribes how they place things in the earlobes so the lobes stretch to their shoulders? That, to me, is what my triceps resemble only there is nothing bringing them down but gravity. So I bit the bullet and I started my journey towards Nicole Curtis arms.

The first time I entered the facility I felt like the new kid in the classroom. Embarrassed, shy, and totally out of place - like everyone was looking at me and my very uncool workout clothes - which was anything I could find in my drawers that were clean. My husband was great and took me around to the different machines to help me get started. Just looking at those things was intimidating enough let alone actually using them. To me, they resemble torture devices that might have been used during the Spanish Inquisition.

The first machine we visited was for my shoulder muscles, the deltoids (I am SO enlightened). The seats are basically formed like a bicycle seat but that did not stop me from doing the following (I am not making this up):

Husband: You're sitting on it backwards.

Me; Oh, hahaha, my bad. (I wanted to crawl in a locker, and was searching the room for anyone snickering at my faux pas).

I survived the first attempt at working out with the machines, so I moved on to the treadmill. I still love walking outside way more, but as long as I was there I figured what the heck.

Observations:
There are 10 treadmills and most of the time they are full of people walking, who are not going anywhere. While they walk, they spend their time reading the closed captions on the TVs posted around the room, which they need to do because treadmills are SO BORING! As I was walking with them, I was reminded of the old cartoon series "The Jetsons". Remember the dog Astro? He took his walks on a conveyor belt outside their space-age home. That's what we all looked like - a bunch of Astros, which really sounds like a**holes if you say it 3 times really fast. I think we should start a treadmill club called "The Astros". You could refer to each other like, "Hey Astro - you need to wipe down the machine when you finish!" or "You're such an Astro.", or "That Astro just changed the channel!" And my favorite, "Get off your cellphone while you're on the treadmill, you Astro!"

I also noticed a lot of people pay large sums of money for other people to make them miserable and cause them pain. These people are called personal trainers. I now understand why weights are called "dumbbells". I just don't have anything to add to that.

Well - I'll keep you posted on any gym happenings and progress on the formation of "The Astro Club". Astros unite!