So, someone told me I posted this on here. But I can’t find it. And it’s a good story anyway. So if you’ve already heard it, deal with it. So there.
I thought this would be the perfect story. It goes with the gym kick I was on recently, and I’m also in the midst of training right now. (Every time I say that, I literally chuckle. I’m not someone who trains for anything. Least of all anything physical.) I’ve been spending a lot of time in the gym lately, and it brings up bad college memories.
I went to a small school in Virginia, and one of our required classes was one called Personal Fitness. Which in reality, was just going to the gym two mornings a week to work out. My teacher liked to torture me by making me participate in the class warm-ups, which often consisted of relay races. One of which involved me, a basketball player, “the wheelbarrow,” and some gym burns on my face. But that’s another story for another day.
This story centers around a Nautilus machine. Even in the best of situations, I’m not terribly coordinated. You add weights and bars and cables and it just gets ugly. So, I sit down on this machine, and reach behind me to grab the bar. I was supposed to bring the bar from behind me to in front of me, at chest level, working out my shoulders/biceps. I’m not sure if you’re picturing this, but you will soon.
Suddenly, I realize that nothing is moving. The bar isn’t coming forward like it’s supposed to. More importantly, my arms are wedged in the machine, forming a u-shaped halo around my head. Are you with me? I’m stuck. In a Nautilus machine. With all of my peers standing around me.
Oh, but they didn’t know I was stuck. Because I’m smooth. To them, it just looked like I was pausing between reps. A very long pause, but a pause nonetheless. I perpetuated this lie by chatting to the people around me. Nonchalantly. While in my head I’m screaming “I’M STUCK IN A MACHINE. AT THE GYM. HELLLLLLLP ME!”
I wait until I think nobody is looking my way. It was time for my escape. I somehow popped my elbows forward, sending the bar flying out of my hands. The weights slam down behind me, and I leap to my feet, resisting the urge to throw my hands in the air like I just stuck a perfect landing.
All eyes had turned to me. I tried to shrug it off, pretend like it wasn’t even me. But everyone knew it was. My face burned, as much from embarrassment as the earlier gym burn. I never got on that machine again. And for the next few weeks, I had the nickname “Nautilus.”
My life is painful.
Seriously. Still makes me laugh.