Photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash
How do you recognize a Gen-Xer at the gym? We’re all wearing shoes with good arch support (probably Asics); we’re decked out in sweatpants (not joggers) and probably a heavy metal T-shirt; and we all, somewhere on our body, have at least one injury. And also a tribal tattoo.
I’m a Gen-Xer and I’m completely obsessed with the gym. If you know me, you’re probably thinking that my ADHD led to a typo and I really meant “Jim.” But you probably don’t, so let me explain. See, I grew up in a time where the more emaciated and pale you looked, the more sunken and dark-rimmed eyes you had, the sexier you were. Punk rock, y’all!
Now, in my 50s, I make myself go to the gym at least three days a week, but sometimes up to five if I’m feeling like an overachiever. It depends on a lot of things, like if I rather sleep in; or I hurt some part of my body the last time I went; or even sometimes I can’t go because, well, it’s a Tuesday. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.
Let me show you around.
In one corner, there are all the cardio machines, each one more tortuous than the next. There are bikes and treadmills (on a road to nowhere), ellipticals that are better for your knees (maybe your knees, definitely not mine), and step machines. Long gone are the step machines of the 90s that were nothing more than two little pedals you literally stepped up and down on while white-knuckled gripping some questionably stable handles. Today’s steppers are much more sturdy but are also actual moving staircases created for people with legs much longer than mine and a death-wish.
In the other corner are the assisted weight machines. You’ll find me among my middle-aged peeps on them because they leave less chance of doing something wrong and hurting yourself.
Then of course there are all the dumbbells, barbells, and plates. That’s where you’ll find a lot of sweaty grunting people who carry around a jug of water and refuse to wipe down the seats and handles when they’re done. To be fair, sometimes you’ll see those same people in the assisted weight area grunting just as loud, even though they’re hardly lifting anything at all. Call me judgy, but come on, really?
Why are there kids here? And how are they so fit?
I find myself staring, probably really obviously, at these young people although I hope I look like I’m staring into space. By now, though, you should recognize that subtly is not really my thing. They are just so freaking cute–especially the little couples! I barely went on any dates when I was in high school, and if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been to a gym.
These kids, however adorable, are not great for my ego. Here I’ll be feeling proud of myself for squatting 40 lbs on a weight-assisted machine and see these waif-like girls squatting 60 with a regular barbell. This is when I tell myself that they’re probably high school or college athletes, or that I’m 35+ years older than them so that’s to be expected, or that because I don’t have a spotting buddy like they do that I’m not pushing myself so of course I’m lifting less. I’m really good at rationalizing things. Some people call it delusion, I call it creativity.
Did the gym even exist when I was their age? I know we had a gym in school, but that was just a period for making up excuses about why I couldn’t play floor hockey or do the President’s fitness test (which you may of you may not be old enough to remember, but know when I tell you that it was brutal and absolutely did not go down on your permanent record). In fact, there actually is no permanent record, no matter what the Violent Femmes say.
Mmm pizza . . .
In today’s world, with everything else the internet has given us, we also have access to terrible body expectations and a million different diet plans, some of the more popular ones being Keto, Weight Watchers, micros and macros, Mediterranean, fasting, and Atkins (although the Atkins creator of is dead so maybe don’t follow that one). Every day it seems like there’s new dietary advice. Of course they all pretty much contradict each other, which is just another reason you can’t believe everything you read on the internet.
When I was younger, it was always Dexatrim and a case of the shakes. Maybe don’t try that diet either.
In fact, forget dieting all together. Diet culture is damaging on so many levels. Take care of yourself and be strong, but don’t obsess over it. Go ahead and splurge on that sundae or bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Not all the time of course. And with the case of the peanut butter cups, maybe not in one sitting. Don’t ask me how I know.
Oh hi, menopause.
And to add insult to injury, there’s “the change.” With it comes body aches, decreased mobility, that belly pouch, and an almost non-existent metabolism. Don’t even get me started on hot flashes.
The experience of this life stage was very difficult to explain to my 54-year old male trainer named Biff (not really) who mistook my desire to be stronger as a desire to be a “hot body” (his words not mine). I wanted to be able to walk up my stairs without having to sit down at the top, and he wanted me to bench press 200 and have muscles so defined you could see my veins.
After the two months I committed to were over, I dropped him. It wasn’t much of a loss because out of our hour-long session, he would spend about thirty-five minutes telling me how great he was at his job, how he always stuck to his diet, and how his wife liked it when he took off his shirt, illustrating his point by raising it to show off his stomach. Now, I like a male (or female) six pack as much as the next gal, but gross.
You know, though, I almost stayed with him because I felt bad about “breaking up” with him. This clearly tells you a lot about my past relationships.
Despite him telling me I needed him, I kept it up one my own.
When none of my various body parts are broken or sprained or just not functioning properly (see “This Little Piggy Went to the ER”), I go to the gym. Early, like before work early. I know, that sounds crazy to me too. But I know myself and that means I know at the end of the day, I’m useless. Maybe it’s the ADHD, maybe it’s straight anxiety, maybe it’s sleep apnea, but after 4 pm, I’m done.
This is one of the reasons I didn’t stay with roller derby the five times I tried and actually made the league. Practicing at 7:30pm? Aren’t we all in bed by then? Not to mention being thrown across the rink by girls half my age who made it a career to cross train really sucks. Don’t get me wrong, they were excellent athletes, it’s just that I wasn’t. I’m still not. I’m a Gen-Xer and I put the “i” in team.
But you know what? That’s okay.
Why am I telling you all this?
As a woman of a certain age, I want you to impart on you what little wisdom I’ve gleaned over the years. If you enjoy something, you should do it. And you should do it your way. It doesn’t matter if you’re good at it and good goddess don’t compare yourself to other people. I know that last part is really hard. That said, don’t do anything dangerous and try not to end up in the ER.
I’m giving you permission to do what you love–even though you don’t need permission from me or anyone else.
You got this.
Hi, I'm Gia. 