With Old Navy’s recent sale on spandex capris, I thought I’d finally hit the gym after buying my pass in January. I know. Shut up.
The gym at my school is an odd one, because it’s tiny and it’s a solid half an half of students and old, rich people who live in the surrounding old, rich community.
There are even a section of treadmills labelled with imperial measurements.
(For those of you who don’t know, Canada switched to metric in the 70s, so those who went to elementary school a long time ago still usually use imperial. Including my parents. Yes, mom, there are 100cm in a metre. I wrote it down for you. It’s on the fridge.)
I’ve made some slight observations.
Good: Old people don’t check you out while you work out.
Bad: I think.
Good: I’ve realized that the elliptical is a magical machine that doesn’t make my knees want to crumble into dust when I use it.
Bad: Have you ever tried looking coordinated on an elliptical?
Good: I climbed the lovingly called “stairs of death” back up to campus without losing my breath after the gym.
Bad: The stairs of death exist.
Good: The new spandex capris and a cute t-shirt aren’t too shabby.
Bad: They are now covered in sweat forever.
So there you are. My adventures at this weird thing that humans go to as a supplement for our lazy-ass lives of leisure so we don’t die of cardiac arrest at 28 while reaching for that last slice of cheesecake.