Ode to the Gym

There are many reasons I spend the money to drive out of my way home and torture myself physically. I have already had a few people (from work, who didn't see me for 10 consecutive days) notice how much cuter my clothes are on my constantly morphing figure. My heartrate no longer remains elevated after carrying my 48 lb dog up the stairs at night. There is no more fear that if the cat got out I could not run it down. My feet don't fall asleep while sitting at my desk anymore - they wait until I have 2 min left on the machine to begin their tingling sensations. Sleep comes upon me fierce and strong and hard. Unfortunately, the sleep is so good I refuse to acknowledge the alarm in the morning, especially if I was feeling decadent and used all the same adjectives for my bedtime activity. I love to watch the calories I'm burning tally up and think of the food I ate. Some days I burn Hershey kisses, other days the tangy sauce on my chicken taco... its fun! Of all of these reasons, I have to admit my favorite part about going to the gym is leaving. I've elevated my heartrate, pushed my muscles and my stamina, stretched and stretched and stretched until I am sure every guy in the place has seen my forehead on my kneecap(s) in every possible way to position yourself to show that off. My makeup is still flawless, the hairspray still in tact, and my perfect posture as I shimmy back to the locker room all pumped up on blood flow give me every confidence that I can wear tennies all day every day and still have a cute walk. Still... even with all of this to seduce me back into the masses of I Wanna Feel Better Because Its January F*cktarts... its not my favorite part. Its the four miles home. The music from the radio is a switch from my iWannaBeAniPodPhone, I'm sitting in a familiar seat on a familiar road driving in a familiar way. The lights from the mall across the street dance in the leaves of the trees lining the street, the turn lanes are well paved and allow me to swiftly and seamlessly pour meself onto the road home. My favorite route is lined with mansions that bear lit landscapes even without the holiday lights. There is a clear view of the freeway going over the mountain, the company I work for, and the sway of the road ahead of me beckoning me to overtake it and be home. In these few minutes, I typically talk to myself. I don't know why - I don't do it in the mornings on my way to work or at lunch breaks or on the way home if its from work or anywhere but the gym. There is something special about the end of the day and of getting oxygenated blood into every capillary in the corners of the folds of the grey matter in my skull. It may be peculiar to you, but its a kind of release I have only this evening noticed is a pattern. I pull up in front of my house, turn the key half way to the off position, wipe away a tear or four, take a deep breath and look up at the house I call home. The two dog faces are in the window most nights, I have just talked through a pressing life matter with the dashboard, and just tonight - one half hour ago - I realized that the culmination of all this is the awareness that I can do it myself... no making phone calls to decide what I want for lunch, no reaching out to have someone tell me I don't need a white russian after a workout, no need to tell Him how sad I am that I'm not in love with him anymore, no calling the roomate to see if she wants to meet for dinner. I have evolved into a person who is comfortable being by herself, doing things for herself, no longer needing moment to moment reinforcement that she is doing good... I can have a theraputic, cleansing, euphoric, baggage unloading epiphany in 8 minutes in the car alone.

My gym has helped me become this person I am proud to be today.