GTBuff
It only took five months of co-habitation, but I’ve successfully made GTB as neurotic about his body as I am about mine.
Having been a nonsmoker for about as long as we’ve lived together, GTB was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the weight he’d gained in the process of quitting. Personally, I like him this way. He’s way cuter with a little meat on him. But when he started turning away from me to get dressed, I said “OK, that’s just stupid. If you’re really that unhappy, do something about it.”
And so, last week, he announced he would be joining my gym.
Now, you all know how I feel about my gym. It’s sort of a love/hate relationship: It smells bad. There are only two good elliptical trainers and they are usually already taken when I get there. If I go in the morning, I contend with the high school football team and their evil, testosterone-addled trainer who encourages them during deadlifts by screaming at them, at 5:30 a.m. If I go in the evening, there is this creepy guy who walks over to the cardio section between reps of bicep curls to check out all the girls. BUT…the guy who owns it is a total sweetheart. It’s never too crammed to get a decent workout in. And I can walk to it from our house.
So when GTB said he would start going with me, I was both elated and a little apprehensive. For one, this meant he’d see me at my sweatiest, stinkiest, gruntingest best. But, it also meant that creepy guy would maybe leave me alone. On one hand, it meant someone getting up with me at 5:00 a.m. On the other, it meant trying to fit workouts in around GTB’s schedule, which is ten times busier than mine. It meant that he’d see the gym and understand why I sometimes hate it. But it also meant that he might make comments about it that pissed me off. “So what if the treadmills don’t keep time? They have a pool!”
What I didn’t count on though was how having a workout buddy, particularly one who was a drama kid and band dude in high school, would turn me into Monica Gellar.
I played sports all through junior high and high school. In college, I did intramural volleyball, softball, and was on the championship powderpuff football team my sophomore year. I was the assistant instructor for three aerobics classes. Despite a few years off between 1999 and early 2002, I’ve been an avid jogger or gym attendant for most of my adult life.
GTB was in plays. He’s been in one band or another since high school. He’s a software guy at work. He plays an occasional game of pick up basketball but had never seen an elliptical trainer in person and wasn’t sure how they worked.
So on Monday, when he declared that he would be getting up with me at 5:00 the next morning to go join the gym, I was excited … and skeptical. Neither one of us are big sleeper-inners, but I have to coax him out of bed with kisses and sweet murmurings at 7:00 every morning. I knew 5:00 was going to be tough. So I told him my secret to successful morning exercise: lay your clothes out the night before. If you even have to think about what shorts to wear or where your socks are, you will become overwhelmed and crawl back into bed. He waved me off and we went to bed.
When the alarm went off at 5, I rolled over, kissed him on the forehead and said, “You comin’?” His response went something like this, “Not this morning, mumble mumble mumble.” I said, “Then what morning?” When he said my name sternly, I knew to leave him alone. I jumped out of bed, put on my clothes, brushed my teeth, and was just putting my contacts in when I heard the bedroom door open and a bleary-eyed bed-headed GTB walked out. After a few more mumbles, it was clear that he was up for a good workout. At least, that’s how I chose to interpret them. I was stoked!
So we walked to the gym and talked about game plan. I told him that I like to do cardio first and then lift weights, but I knew guys who liked to lift first and then do cardio, presumably to release the lactic acid that was rushing to their muscles after lifting massive amounts of weight. Since I’m interested in toning and fat burning, I get my heart rate up first. Blah blah blah. He took it all in stride and seemed open to whatever suggestions I had to offer. Either that or he was still mostly asleep.
When we got to the gym and he paid his dues, I escorted him to the cardio section. That’s where he got his first glimpse of an elliptical trainer. We decided that was maybe a bit much for his first time out, so I put him on a recumbent bike. I hopped on my favorite elliptical trainer and proceeded to sweat profusely for the next half hour. Every few minutes or so, I’d look over to see how he was doing. After a bit, he’d taken off his sweatshirt and was reading a magazine. A few minutes more, his cheeks were rosy and he looked bored. A bit after that, I looked over and said, “Faster!” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I knew it was bad. I spent the rest of the time on the elliptical trainer concentrating on not being his mother.
Then we moved to weights. I made a few suggestions about what I thought would be effective on the areas I know he’s most unhappy with, but mostly I tried to leave him alone. Then we took it upstairs for abs, back, and stretching.
Then we walked home. He was already tight and sore, two things I relish about going to the gym in the morning. I read something in the Blood Type Diet book about how Type Os tend to feel better when their bodies are in a state of repair after a really hard workout. I know that’s true for me. I didn’t know if it would be for GTB. Later, when he was brushing his teeth, he said he was already having trouble lifting his arms. I told him I knew it’d been a good morning at the gym if I had a hard time drying my hair.
Throughout the rest of the day, in email exchanges and over dinner, I’d ask how he was feeling and he’d tell me he was tired and sore. I told him the day of a workout is bad, the day after is worse, and the third day, if you don’t work out, is hell. So we would plan to get up and do it again this morning. The best way to get over being sore is to make yourself move some more. Blah blah blah.
Do you see what’s happening? I’m obnoxious. I’m irritating. I’m even bugging myself with all this peppy gym talk. And he’s fine with it. (Except for the “Faster!” comment, of course. We decided I would be mindful of that particular kind of motivation.)
And yet, when the alarm went off at 5:00 this morning, and I rolled over and said, “You up for it?” and he said, “I didn’t sleep well last night,” I said, “Well, if you’d rather go tomorrow, I’ll wait and go with you then.” Because as much of a cheerleader as I might be, I still like my sleep too.
Here’s to hoping I can motivate both our butts out of bed tomorrow.