by Azadeh Amirsadri
The gym I was trying to like last year had a manic male trainer who wore tight shorts and had a microphone attached to his head. He ran around on a firm mattress-like floor giving members high-fives like the good participants we were supposed to be, and even telling us to high-five each other or clap for ourselves after each section. I introduced myself to him before the session started and told him about my knee issues. He looked at me and then looked away, and said “Only do what feels comfortable because you don’t want to get hurt.” Then he added with enthusiasm ”You will rock this”, giving me a high five. I was secretly worried that I wasn’t going to rock much, given that I was one of the older participants. I felt overwhelmed by the loud music pumping through the big open space, but as I usually do with gyms in general, I thought I had found a place where I could attend the least number of times and get the most amount of benefit, so I signed up for one month to give it a try. This is a gym that offers free childcare and is geared towards women, most of them moms who really like the day care option. The club advertised itself as a place where you give them a week and you will fall in love with the process. When asked if I loved the place during my second visit, I replied “I am trying to figure out if I like it” but the over-enthusiastic receptionist didn’t care for my answer. She asked what I wasn’t sure about and I told her the noise level was too high for me. She had an even louder laugh than the music and the trainer on the microphone combined, and said “Hahaha, you will get used to it. It motivates people to work out longer”.
Another gym I tried for a few months was a high intensity place that was run by very kind people; for most of them, this was their second job and for some, it was their religion. I felt seen and accepted, and the trainers made a lot of accommodations for me. I didn’t have to jump over high black boxes, or climb the wall, or run. For the warm up, I was allowed to walk or use the stationary bike. It was all too good to be true, and everyone would call me by my name, as in “Azi, you are doing great” or “Azi, you are strong today.” Soon enough though, about five weeks in, I hurt my right knee and couldn’t participate anymore. Someone there told me there is no shame in getting hurt and I could still participate in the Murph, even if I don’t complete it. I shook my head in agreement and when I got home, I googled The Murph to see what she was saying.
My next place was a Pilates place near me because someone at the high intensity gym who looked fabulous, told everyone she does Pilates and weights and can eat whatever she wants. A very nice young and very fit woman with painted nails and false eyelashes showed me the Pilates studio. She said within a month of working out 3 times a week, I will notice my core muscles getting leaner and stronger. After I asked if the music is always this loud, she got deflated a bit and said yes, because that’s how the customers like it. She added that she is not sure this would be a good fit for me because the music is always loud to energize the workout.
When I am not being encouraged to “crush” a workout or being told that “I’ve got this”, I am very happy exercising by swimming or walking the trails in nature. I am of an age and temperament that loud music makes me turn around and quickly leave a restaurant, store or gym, unless of course it’s a song that I really like and get to sing along with for a little. The days of loud happy-hour music with cheap drinks and free foods are long behind me, yet once in a while, I find myself meeting some colleagues or friends in a bar-like setting and marvel at the pairings and groups there. I can’t stop watching people slowly lose their inhibition as they do shots and try to jam as many drinks in their two to three hour happy hour interlude before they head back to their lives. People get redder, louder and happier as they drink and look around for potential mates. Since I am not really seen by the wait staff most of the time, and I can’t hear my friends well, I can sit back and watch the alcohol-fused courtships.
In the Spring 2021, another courtship had me obsessed and watching outdoors whenever I had the chance. The Brood X cicadas in Virginia had emerged from the earth as fully grown screaming bugs after their 17-year slump. Most people talked about the noise they made, how creepy they looked, how one should protect one’s trees from them, and also how to cook them in garlic and soy sauce if you were a person who had to eat everything that could be a good source of protein, in this land of plenty. I saw women running from their car to their house with a tennis racket to bat the cicadas away, or wear a hat with a mesh should the cicadas land on their head. At my pool, two preteen girls experimented with the cicadas by throwing them in water to see if they would swim, fly or drown. Sometimes, they removed their wings, or removed just one wing and threw them in water. It was a massacre site I could not look away from though I was pretending to read my book.
I actually love the cicadas. I love how they show evolution and nature at work. I love how they fly around, all drunk with procreation desire and bump into people and objects until they find a mate. I love that they are shameless in their sexual desire and chirp non-stop, and don’t even have to pretend that they are interested in what the female has to say, like what her favorite movies are and how she really feels about her parents. The cicadas just want sex and that’s it.
When I saw them first in 2004, I had a broken leg and didn’t appreciate their presence as much. My sisters came to help me and I spent a lot of time on strong pain medication and physical therapy. In 2021, I was all ears and ready for them. I wonder where I’ll be in 2038?