That Time I Quit the Gym

About 2 years ago I wrote these words but never pressed publish because I didn’t have any photos to go with them. Wednesday I took some photos but really didn’t have any words to go with them. So here we are.

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This morning I drove to the gym with the intention of doing one last workout before cancelling my membership. Several days before then, I’d decided that I would devote my time to practicing yoga in a studio and couldn’t justify the cost of both, and so it was bye bye gym. Several days before then, I’d decided that I should do yoga because yoga was more “me”. Because yoga is the magic cure for anxiety and I am an anxious person therefore yoga is what I should be doing. Because the sound of my own Ujjayi breath was way prettier than the guttural moans required to squeeze out those last two shaky burpees. Because yoga is beautiful and at times made me feel beautiful. I had a long list of reasons to trade in my smelly hours at the smelly gym for blissful mornings inhaling lavender essential oil and my neighbor’s freshly-laundered Lululemon.

So this morning I drove to the gym. I did jump squats and dead lifts and kettle bell swings while blasting rap that I’m probably way too old to listen to. I grunted and dripped sweat and made ugly faces and hunched over between sets to catch my breath. I didn’t think about one single thing other than what I was doing for those 45 seconds or those 10 reps AND IT FELT SO GOOD.

I’ve wanted to love yoga for so long. Like really love it, you know? And though I do enjoy it on occasion and will likely never stop doing it when my tight quads beg for relief, I’ve realized that trying to force a passion for something because I think I should is pretty goofy.  So that day, I didn’t quit the gym because I love the gym. I F$%^ING LOVE THE GYM.