Shiny Red Mismatch

A shiny red mega-gym just opened in our town, and we headed over last night to check out their fantastic introductory offer. I haven’t been a gym member since elementary school, and even then, I mostly played ping-pong and snuck into the adults only hot tub. Working out really isn’t my thing. But the shiny red flyer in our mailbox promised an all-you-can-eat buffet of classes, a special work out room for self-conscious ladies, and babysitting, all for less than I used to pay for a basic cell phone plan. Did I mention the babysitting? The prospect of doing sit-ups without a one-year-old jumping on my stomach was enough. Off we went.

True to its word, the gym was red and shiny. Quite shiny. In fact, the rows of pristine ellipticals and sparkling weight machines appeared never to have been tainted by human contact. The throngs of gym members hanging out by the juice bar in their designer tennis shoes showed no signs of exertion. Neither a mere drop of sweat nor a hint of a ponytail as far as the eye could see.

A begrudging employee walked several paces ahead of us to point out some of the rooms, then explained how a membership would actually cost twice what the flyer advertised. Oh, and no babysitting for Sophie. And about that ladies’ work out room, yeah, it doesn’t actually exist.

I was honestly relieved at the price hike, because it gave me a better excuse to turn down the gym than the other reasons flitting through my head: Because my face turns as red and shiny as their waxed floors when I do aerobic activity. Because my belly looks less like a washboard and more like pudding. Because my athletic shoes are a knock-off of a knock-off brand that I bought at Value City for $18. Because I seem to be the only person in the building interested in… well, exercising.

I wasn’t too disappointed over it not working out, but I still can’t shake the overwhelming sense of an imperfect fit. A designer gym, a stale church, red hair in a Mediterranean country, twenty-four hours a day I don’t know how to hold. So much fits me awkwardly right now, or not at all, and I’m waiting for it all to add up to something better. Better is a guarantee, I think. I imagine the cogs turning one more notch, or two… and then there—ever so slightly removed from glittering treadmills and ex-pat blunders and bleary February days—will be my niche. My flab and I can hardly wait.