I walked into the gym like a man returning to a crime scene.
Everything looked familiar…and also like it had moved on without me.
The weights were still there. Machines lined up like obedient soldiers. Even the smell—rubber, metal, and a hint of broken New Year’s resolutions—was exactly the same.
But me?
I felt like a guy who used to belong here.
In another lifetime.
Back when my knees didn’t sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies every time I stood up.
I used to train for races. Real ones. Numbers pinned to my chest. Pacing strategies. Playlists that made me feel like I was starring in a Nike commercial nobody had actually hired me for.
I trained for ultramarathons.
Now I train for getting off the couch without making a noise like I’m opening a haunted door.
“Ahhh.”
“Oof.”
“Okay…okay…we’re good.”
I told myself: Go slow.
Which at fifty-something is a beautiful way of saying, “I have no idea what this body is capable of anymore, and I’d prefer not to meet Jesus between sets.”
So I started small.
Light weights. Baby steps.
The kind of workout I once called a warm-up.
Now?
Main event.
Followed by a brief emotional debrief in the parking lot.
I even got a three-day free trial, because nothing says I’m changing my life like a 72-hour commitment and unreasonable confidence.
After my “workout”—and we’re using that term generously—I headed to the sauna.
A 5x7 cedar closet where adults voluntarily go to sweat and reconsider their choices.
Orange light. Tiny stove. Air thick with cedar.
Basically, I was sitting inside a very emotional pencil.
I’d read about the health benefits.
I no longer remembered what they were.
At this point, if someone told me sitting in a hot wooden box would improve circulation, mental clarity, and my credit score, I was in.
Day one, I was alone.
Quiet.
Just me and my thoughts—which is already a fairly dangerous neighborhood.
Then the door opened.
Big guy. Sweatshirt. Sweatpants.
He sat down, pulled out his phone…
and apparently began hosting a film festival.
Volume up.
Videos firing one after another.
Laughing. Talking. Music.
Fifteen minutes of someone else’s algorithm ricocheting off cedar walls.
Day two?
Different guy.
Same show.
By day three, I assumed it came with the membership.
Unlimited heat, light weights, and complimentary overstimulation.
Then I started noticing it everywhere.
People sitting on machines…scrolling.
Holding dumbbells like props.
Resting between sets that, as far as I could tell, had never begun.
Thumbs getting stronger than anything else in the building.
And I started wondering:
What happened while I was gone?
When did the gym become a waiting room for distraction?
When did we become so uncomfortable doing one thing that we needed to be somewhere else while doing it?
And then—because life has a sense of humor and absolutely no respect for hypocrisy—
I sat down.
Pulled out my phone.
Just for a second.
Something important.
Urgent.
Life-altering.
Probably nothing.
And for a moment the screen went black.
I saw my reflection.
Sitting.
Scrolling.
Not moving.
Same posture.
Same distraction.
Same quiet little escape from the moment I had supposedly come here to return to.
Oh.
The gym hadn’t changed.
I had.
Maybe we all had.
We carry tiny escape hatches in our pockets now.
Bored?
Leave.
Uncomfortable?
Leave.
Alone with your thoughts for eleven seconds?
Dear God.
Leave.
We can be anywhere without actually having to be there.
Even the gym.
Even the sauna.
Even our own lives.
I looked at the phone in my hand.
Then at the weights on the floor.
And laughed.
Because lifting weight is hard.
But sitting with yourself?
That’s heavier.
Comments