This morning I went to the gym. Not that going to the gym is something in and of itself to write home about, but this was my first trip to the gym in over two and a half months. An abdominal injury paired with bad iliotibial bands forced my doctor to sign a cease and desist order for all physical activity for two months. Well I now feel good enough to return to my exercise routine, and went to the gym.
Upon walking in, I noticed a new front desk girl. She smiled at me and then scanned my card. She scowled at the computer screen and then scowled at me. Welcome back Mr. Ensor. She condescended. It’s nice to see you again. Oh please.
So I stretched and hopped on the scale. Welcome back Mr. Ensor! Oh I see you brought a little extra with you. I’ll bet you’re glad we don’t charge by the pound. I flipped off the scale, said some expletives under my breath and then went and stretched again. I used the elliptical instead of the treadmill because running has hurt me badly over the last couple weeks. My run down Memorial Drive in Calgary two days ago almost crippled me to the point of needing a wheelchair. That’s not an exaggeration. It’s true.
I did a few of my old exercises and then debated what I should do next. Swim? Yeah swimming. Swimming doesn’t hurt anyone ever. That’s true with the exception of drowning. Why is it that when I swim laps I always feel like I’m drowning? One of my friends wondered out loud, “well do you know how to swim?” Smart ass. She’s lucky she said it in a text message, but she does have a point.
After 10 laps (at least I think it’s ten, 500m) I was ready to throw up in the pool. I was dizzy and felt like dying. I left the gym.
Upon arriving home, Moose, my housemate’s cat, looked at me mockingly as if I were a failure at swimming, exercise and life. “Moose, don’t look at me like that. You’re a cat, what the hell do you know about swimming?”
