destination: no where

health clubs are such a fascinating world. there is so much going on at any given moment in any given room one must just marvel at the possibilities. even those of us who are not insane-addicted-obsessive-neurotic-fixated with physical appearance require some amount of psycho-babble self-talk in our minds to help finish a difficult (or in my case, boring) workout. while on the treadmill at the Y tonight i glanced around at the anorexic girls and with each of them pondered "what is going through her head right now?" one young woman in particular was working herself so hard and looked so miserable i couldn't help but feel incredibly sad for her. she was so hungry. and so tired. she was the kind of person you just want to hug. she was the kind of person you could wrap your arms around twice if you did. i wanted to cry a little bit because i was having so much fun doing my workout and i knew that this has never been fun for her. she was not enjoying herself, she was just doing what was necessary. as i pondered her situation, i thought to myself: while working out in the gym, if your head is not full of motivational speeches, which mine never is, the only thing you can do is look around at all of the other sweaty visitors and assess their situations. everyone has a story and some of them are mysterious. so i wondered, who am i to these people? what do the bulging 'roid boys think when they see me in the weight room? what about the women who have societally normal lives with husbands and a grown daughter who has blessed the family with a handsome successful young husband and a lovely grandson who is to be baptized on sunday at first lutheran? what do they think when they look at me? and as i ran for 25 minutes, destination: no where, with the anorexic girl behind me it occurred to me who i am for her. with my man-back and a healthy layer of cushion, compliments of 20 years of a sordid love affair with fried cheese, i am her reverse trigger. i am the girl in front of her at the gym about whom she obsesses "keep going keep going, you don't want to look like her." she may have even created a mantra of this or a very similar phrase. to look at my not-exactly-sleek thighs and the parts of me that jiggle a little when i run helps her reach her goal. when caloric energy is unavailable, one depends on visual stimuli and sheer self-hatred to continue. i have no idea how i feel about this. not bad or embarrassed. insightful maybe. it's not about me so next time it will be whomever else is there whose bones are not visible through their skin. her relationship with me, or rather, my imperfections, expires as soon as the stairmaster beeps to indicate that in direct violation of all rules of energy utilization and physical intake requirements she has finished her workout. her life is a never-ending battle and every person or object she encounters is but a pawn in her sad story. a symbol of something safe or something bad. she'll encounter the scale when she gets to the locker room. the toilet and the television will provide their own challenges. once "safely" in her car she has all of the restaurants and drive-thrus to grieve on her way home. and once home alone, the battle really begins. health clubs can be very sad places. and often one must acknowledge the misnomer.