Category: working out

A Gen X-er Walks into a Gym

Posted on by Giacarla in aging, anxiety, gen x, working out

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.

this little piggie went to the er

Posted on by Giacarla in injury, ridiculousness, working out

(featured image: Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash and features a woman who is definitely and most unfortunately, not me.)

what’s that saying? put the cart before the horse? that may be what i’m doing here if the cart was the previous post about my podiatrist follow-up and this post, or the horse, is all about what happened to have that follow-up in the first place.

after a two week break from the gym because of a head cold, after being back fully only about a month after healing from a pinched nerve in my neck for almost two months, i was off on indigenous people’s day and decided to go to the gym. i slept in on that glorious morning and didn’t go until around 10. that’s over two hours later than my usual time, which already started things off on the wrong foot.

the signs were there

as i was leaving my house, i noticed a dead dragonfly caught in a spiderweb on our front door. of course, like anyone else would, i immediately feared that was a bad sign. right? a dead dragonfly? but reflecting on my years of therapy, i decided i was just being neurotic and i should get on with it. (note: this is not a warning against going to therapy but is a warning against not trusting your gut. i’m going to bring this up in my next session.)

eye of the tiger

i’m on the treadmill and for the first time in a few weeks, i actually feel good. after, i head over to the smith machine to do some squatting. i prefer the smith when i’m alone because there’s much less chance of getting hurt than if using the power rack.

image of a smith machine
smith machine

likely because it was mid-morning and a holiday, the place was crowded and both smiths were being used so i decided to use the leg press. something didn’t feel right about it, but like seriously, what could go wrong?

i’ve done this hundreds of times.

in fact, there was a time when i was doing 270 total, which is 3 plates on both sides, but lately i’d been struggling with 180 after being away for so long and didn’t want to push it and hurt myself that day, i loaded two 45lb plates on one side no problem. i grabbed another and started to hoist it up onto the other side.

I REALLY DO THINK I HAVE ADHd

something in front of me caught my attention. i think it was two guys working out on a nearby machine. they weren’t at all interesting, but it doesn’t take a lot to distract me. remember that 45lb plate i was putting onto the bar? well, i miscalculated and you see where i’m going with this.

i stood there for a minute, not entirely sure what had happened. i knew plate was no longer in my hands, but it didn’t dawn on me right away that it was lying by, and probably on, my foot. there wasn’t much pain and let me tell you, shock is a blessing. i was actually going to keep going but thought it might be a good idea to head to the bathroom and see if i did any damage.

i did damage.

hello bathroom stall floor, my old friend

if you know me, you know that when i panic, my first instinct is to throw up. this is not all convenient, but a bit more so than when i get car sick and someone else is driving. but this is not a story about that, although i’m sure there’ll be one at some point in the future. i could actually write a whole travelogue of places i’ve had someone pull over because i was going to puke. is there a market for that type of book?

i sat on the floor in a stall and took off my sock and then you guessed it, i started heaving. throughout it all, my biggest concern was getting out of there without anyone noticing. i was literally terrified of having to tell someone or someone noticing. at that point, this was my biggest fear. pride is a funny, and often really stupid, thing.

goddess bless the woman in the next stall who asked if i needed any help for going to get all the stuff i left at the leg press. to this day, i have no idea who she was and am still intensely grateful.

i somehow managed to put my shoe back on, pull myself up, grab my stuff, and hobble quickly out of the locker room and out the door. i cannot express how relieved i was when i got to my car without, i think, anyone knowing what happened. and as most of you know, my car crutches were there waiting for me. and i say again, “who’s rolling their eyes now about carrying crutches around?”

Skip the er, we do x-rays, they say

as luck would have it, or not have it in this case, there is an urgent care right down the street from both the gym and my house. above the door is a big sign that says, “we do xrays.” except, of course, that day.

i got a little testy when the person at the desk kept asking me to get up from where i was sitting to fill out forms. finally, i had them bring to me because come on. at that point, my shoe was off, my little baby balloon foot was bare, and while i did have crutches, there very clearly was a problem.

once that was settled and they got me a wheelchair (which I asked for), the pa, who possibly was experiencing his first day at the clinic, checked out my foot. he was so distressed that it was endearing, and he sent me for an x-ray. he was also concerned that i shouldn’t drive so another hero of the day was my neighbor who came and picked me up and brought me two towns over to advanced radiology.

it’s important to note here that i was planning on going to the er, which is very close, but the pa told me i would have to wait too long there and should go to an outpatient radiology. he did give me a boot so i wouldn’t have to go home to get the one i already had, and with that and the crutches, getting around was relatively easy and barely painful. besides having broken my ankle three times, i knew the drill.

when i got to the outpatient radiology, they took pity on me and even though they were breaking for their hour lunch, they slipped me in. more heroes.

by the time i got back home, the pa had gotten the x-ray results and very strongly suggested i go to the er because my pinky toe was dislocated and would probably have to be set. it was better to do it sooner than later, he said. yes, the same er i had intended to go to in the first place. at least i could drive myself without the watchful, and probably understandably concerned, gaze of the pa.

we’re on co-pay number three if you’re counting.

as i waited at various points in my er trip, i realized that i wasn’t mad to be there. i mean, i was mad at my own stupidity, but since i work at home, alone, it was nice to be around people. yes, i do recognize how pathetic that is. (see coworking blog: “back to the office sort of.”) i was also really thirsty. i mean really, really thirsty. but they wouldn’t give me water in case they had to sedate me to reset my toe. that was literally the most uncomfortable part of the whole injury.

i shattered my arm once and had that reset. if you want to see the x-ray, just ask. i love it showing it off. but i warn you that it is not for the squeamish. anyhow, i’m pretty sure resetting a baby toe would be nothing like that and i could have gone without sedation and with a glass of water. but there was no sedation nor resetting, and later they told me i might have to have pins and rods put in to heal my poor little digit. who has surgery on their baby toe?! as it turns out, luckily, not me.

this pretty much sums up the “incident of the shattered arm”

this is the end . . . or is it?

before i wrap up, another shoutout goes to the woman who wheeled me to the triage on the other side of the hospital after i had the valet park my car because there are only like 3 parking spaces in front of the er. when it was over and i was retrieving my car, she came up to me to make sure i was okay.

overall it took about a month to heal enough to resume my regular activities. that said, my foot is a bit misshapen now, although i’m not sure if it looked like that before because i never really examined my feet.

also, no physical therapy was involved, which is good because i promised my therapists i would not come back injured for at least a year. i’m on a first-name basis with everyone in that orthopedic practice.

for more on the aftermath of the “incident or the pinky toe,” see blog: “oops! i did it again.”