Getting My Ghost On

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I am trying to remember the last time I went to BodyPump. It had to be about a year ago. Did I set up my equipment in my favorite spot? Or was I forced to the other side because that woman with auburn hair got there first? Was I wearing my favorite workout outfit? Or did I dress in the dark again and arrive with mismatched clothes? Did we have Amy as our instructor? Or was it that young woman who loved hard rock songs? 

By the time my daughter convinced me to go to a group class, I’d been rowing and running at that gym for about four years. I’d always wanted to return to BodyPump after (gulp) 20 years. But I’d come to dislike crowded rooms and especially ones encased in glass walls so anyone could watch your workouts.

I got over it and went. And I got hooked. Within minutes I was breathing heavy; within a few more sets, I was soaked in sweat. I only went to the Tuesday and Friday 5:30 a.m. sessions because of my work schedule. But I started to think of those days as my favorites. I loved how it felt as I strained under the weights and then how it felt when I confidently added more weights.  I especially loved how I felt energized the rest of the day. I even downloaded some of the songs on my iPhone so I could listen to them while not working out.

Then the music died. My life moved from one crisis to another, and in another state with no nearby gyms or Les Mills classes. I lived and worked for months in an altered state and consumed with stress. And once I was finally back home with a 10-year-old to send to school each morning, it was obvious I wasn’t going back to that gym or to that BodyPump class. 

To the regulars, I had ghosted. 

Without those classes or any kind of consistency, there wasn’t any reason for me to maintain my gym membership. I think I’d held on so long because I wanted to return to my former life or, at least tell everyone good-bye on my own terms. One day in the late fall I walked into my old gym, the one for U.S. Marines, and decided it was time to return.

My husband and I left that gym years ago when everyone started coming back spooked from Iraq and Afghanistan deployments. The place had always been intense, but after we went to war the mood darkened. I felt so out of place, thinking I wasn’t worthy to take up equipment others needed to work through their PTSD.

I no longer feel out of place there. For one, I go later in the morning when it’s mostly middle-aged retirees. There are still plenty of people there processing really serious shit. Now, though, I’m one of them. I left this place as just another suburban housewife trying to stay in shape. I returned after seven years shell shocked from my own battles with life.  

My outer shell is much softer now. I definitely need to work on that. Inside, though, I’ve hardened. Whether that’s a good or bad thing remains to be seen.

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