Y Not Here?

For some reason, writing at the Y while my daughter has basketball practice is harder than I imagined. 

I’m not in the gym.  Cold metal bleachers were not designed for the human seat. Instead, I’m in the main hallway that leads to the aerobics and cardio rooms, seated on a tall stool at a tiny glass table with my laptop.  I’m watching some entirely too energetic people engaged in step aerobics. 

To my right are old pictures from Y days gone by.  I see a bowling team, a calisthenics class or two, several swimmers, and team pictures of young boys that could be from today if it weren’t for the baggy uniforms and horn rimmed glasses.

To my left is the service counter where four employees are talking.  They’ve started talking about computers, and I wonder if it’s because of me.  I always think people are talking about me.  I wonder how much they get paid and what their hours are and how much work they actually do.

I’m feeling guilty for not thinking ahead enough to bring some workout clothes for myself.  I could use a good run on the elliptical or the treadmill, or maybe do a circuit in the weight room.  I haven’t run for five days.  I feel like a big sloth… a big sloth with a sick husband and a messy house and three days until the big sleepover party.

There are all kinds at the Y.  There are the totally sculpted girls who make workouts seem effortless, couples in sweats, teens wandering the halls, muscle-bound men in sleeveless shirts, older folks, heavier folks… all kinds of folks.  A little girl just came from the gym telling her mom, who is still clothed in scrubs, about what she learned in gymnastics. 

There’s something to be said for a place where different kinds of people can get together because they share a common purpose.  I think “kudos” is the word.  Too bad I don’t share that purpose right now!

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