A Day at the RPAC
By Ellen D.
It all started mid-January as I was walking into the mall. At this time of the year, as I’m sure you all remember, the temperature is 23 degrees, and I’m wearing jeans, boots, a thermal shirt, a sweatshirt, a jacket, a scarf, and…you get the point; it’s f*cking cold outside. So imagine my surprise when I walk into Macy’s only to find an entire portion of the store devoted to bathing suits. That’s right, it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside and I’m walking past rack upon rack of bathing suits.
Needless to say, I was horrified. The prospect of trying on a bathing suit right now with pasty skin and hairy legs was bad enough, but the real problem was the extra 5 pounds I had put on over the holidays. But, in my fervor for shopping, I tried one on anyway. I sorted through the racks, picked out a few suits, and headed to the fitting rooms.
There, standing in a tiny bikini under the harsh fluorescent lights, I became acutely aware of all my shortcomings. It was then that I had a revelation — I needed to get my ass to the gym.
I chose the RPAC, both for its central location on campus and the great “people watching” it provides. After going for a couple of weeks, I realized two things: 1) the RPAC would be more appropriately named R-Packed and 2) There are a lot of characters at the gym. Luckily, with a little effort, I was able to stereotype the majority of them.
There’s the Asian guy who’s more familiar with the inside of a chem lab than a weight bench. Then you’ve got “my new haircut” guy who can be seen sipping protein and muscle milk post-workout. There’s cell-phone girl who won’t shut up despite running on the treadmill. The really muscular, or maybe he’s just fat, guy. And of course, who could forget naked locker room girl, who does nothing but strut around in the buff.
What strikes me the most about these people is that during their workouts, so many of them don’t seem to know what the hell they’re doing, or even to really care, for that matter. It was then that I considered my own motivations, and I started to think about why anyone goes to the gym, let alone so many college students.
At the end of the day, we don’t work out for the great abs, the endorphins, or even to people watch. Most of us work out so that when we finally wake up on Sunday morning, wearing the same clothes we wore the night before and feeling every bit of the eight (or more) Nattys and two cheesy gordita crunches from the previous night, we feel just a little bit better about ourselves.
Originally Published: Issue 647 - May 7, 2008
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