I Joined a Gym! Who, Me? A fiftysomething joins a gym for the first time and worries that the staff will either die laughing or ask for hazard pay.

I joined a gym!  Who, me?

By Ann Green

Well, I did it.  I joined a gym.  This is a first for me.  Better late than never, to coin a phrase.  How late?  You could say I’m in my 50s.  You could say late 50s.  Even hanging-by-a-thread 50s.  That late.

I’ve never been fond of exercise.  From kindergarten through college I engaged in zero sports.  For a while in my 20s and 30s I ran.  Nothing spectacular, rarely more than 3 miles.  I participated in one race, the Bonne Bell 10K.  My most vivid memory is of being passed by an elderly woman. 

 At around 40 I switched to walking.  On a good week I might walk 4-5 days.  Other weeks it’s more like 2-3.  There are way too many days when I engage in paralyzing internal dialogues:  “I’m busy.” “It’s raining.” “It’s snowing.” “It’s so hot.” “It’s really cold.”  “It gets dark too early.”  “I’m not in the mood.”  Of course we are blessed with the Natick Mall, which accommodates walkers, thus eliminating weather and daylight issues.  And I have walked there on occasion.

I’ve thought about joining a gym off and on for years.  My husband has been stressing the need for weight training as we, ahem, age and start falling a lot.  And while walking is good – when I actually do it -- I know I need to work on problem areas.  In my case that would range from my scalp to the soles of my feet.

Exercise is boring.  I know you’re supposed to let your mind roam free, feel the burn or the wind in your face and work toward a runner’s high or some other pseudo-psychedelic state.  Working at home is isolating, and sometimes walking just feels like more solitary confinement.  Occasionally I find a walking buddy, but not often enough.

Maybe, I told myself, a gym will make exercise more social.  Of course someone will have to show me how to use those (boring-looking) machines.  My mechanical skills end with starting my car.

So, I did it.  An enthusiastic employee, young enough to be my grandson, showed me around while I tried desperately not to look like an out-of-shape cliché.  He gave me a membership card and a t-shirt that’s five sizes too big (maybe he chose that one to make me feel slimmer).  I noted the row of TV which will go a long way toward alleviating tedium.

I made an appointment with a trainer.  Now I live in fear that when I walk in an alert will sound, “Code Red!  We can’t locate her abs!”  What if the trainer takes one look at me and dissolves into laughter?  Or demands overtime or hazard pay?  I have to find something to wear that will disguise my problem areas but still let me see where I’m going. 

I’ll try to ignore my doubts and fears.  I’ll don my very loose capris (I haven’t owned shorts since I was 5) and an equally loose t-shirt.  I will move forward into the aerobic unknown.  My mission:  To boldly go where no Ann has gone before – Planet Fitness.

To be continued.  I hope.