Blow after blow. Thursday during lunch I went to the recreation center in hopes that the gym would be open. My assumption—informed by a sign that was posted on the gates on Monday when I first saw that the center was closed—was that after preparations had been made for opening the public pool, which opened that day, the gym would reopen too. Instead I pathetically passed the line of swimmers and approached the entrance to the recreation center in my shorts and with my stupid water bottle in hand, a big smile on my face, excited to continue to pursue my health and fitness goals, a pursuit which had done so much for me, for my body and my state of mind, over the past months, to the point that it had become a central feature of all of my plans, of all my optimism, and I was so happy about it, it was so lucky that this gym was available, that it was so affordable, that it was located about a two minute walk from my house, in a beautiful park which I was so lucky to live right next to, and with all these thoughts of gratitude that had dominated my mind for so long now, I approached the young recreation center attendants, who oversaw the line of swimmers (there was currently no one standing in the line.)
“Are you going to the gym?” asked one of the attendants.
“Yes,” I answered.
“The gym is closed for two years.”
“What!”
“It’s closed for two years . . . for renovations.”
I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to argue with him.
“Jesus ,” I said, “That sucks!”
“Sorry,” the young man consoled me.
I turned around and sulked away, defeated, all the way over to the outdoor exercise equipment, which was dominated by children playing on it, then I knelt in the grass next to the outdoor exercise area.
Then I put my hands down in the grass in front of me.
Then I felt the earth, and I raised my hips.
And then my legs came out from under me and I extended them behind me.
Then I planted my soles into the ground, then I straightened out.
Then I did fifteen push-ups.
Then I stood around and then did twelve push-ups.
Then did ten.
And then twelve.
And then I bought a coffee at the café then went home.
Talk about anticipating future losses. I never expected this. There were no signs about this anywhere in the gym. Nobody ever said anything to me about it. I paid fifty dollars for a six-month membership only two months ago. And nobody mentioned it. I even looked on the website this week when I was trying to figure out why the center had been closed. And there was nothing.
But there is a bright side. My apartment’s lease renewal date is approaching. Every summer when this happens I start to fear that I will be kicked out of the apartment. I love my apartment. With the gym right next door, and the ability to use it during my lunch hour at work, things were almost too perfect. In any situation like this, when I really love something, I anxiously fear that it will be taken from me, and I plan and plan for the moment when it is lost. For what I will do.
Now that I was going to this gym every day, I had started to think: “I have to live around this park. If I get kicked out at the end of the lease, I’m going to have to find a new place in this immediate area.”
Readers of this diary have observed that I have become rather—I think it is fair to use this word—obsessed with my routine. All of my anxieties had become centered around preserving it.
But it’s not purely about the fear of change. I love my neighborhood. I love living next to the park. I love my apartment. When I found it, I thought I had finally found the thing I knew that I really wanted, and which I’d never felt I had: a home. A place I would want to stay. A place I would defend. All of the time that I was unemployed, I paid the rent on this place, which was not nearly as cheap as it should have been given my meager income, and I motivated myself with the knowledge that I wanted it. I wanted to stay here.
Then when I entered my relationship and really learned to believe in it, got over my doubts about why she would possibly want me, whether she would possibly want me . . . I just remembered a note in my phone. In the first weeks that we met, after some date during which I was sure I had humiliated myself again and again, after which I was sure she could not be interested in me anymore, she sent me a text message: “I love being around you.” I still have the note in my phone, the note I wrote when I received that. “Why does this beautiful woman say she loves being around me?”
Anyway I would say to myself, now I have the apartment I want to stay in, now I have the relationship that I want to stay in, now I just need to find the workplace that I will want to stay in, too. I even said that in my job interviews. And I was speaking honestly.
Anyway if the gym is closed for two years maybe I’ll think about going somewhere else if I get kicked out. Maybe I could live down by the beach for the summer.
Something like that.
Sorry this one is kind of experimental.
E