What’s your idea of luxury, Andalusia?
Mine is eating half-a-dozen slabs of bacon in a row (fried up in a big, black skillet). And if I’m feeling really special about myself. I might just cook some cornbread in the leftover grease.
Naturally, with luxurious inclinations like these, health issues have begun to worry my bacon-grease-soaked head.
So I’m thinking about exercise.
Up until now, my policy about exercise was I didn’t lift it unless it had fallen on me, and I didn’t run unless I was being chased.
Apparently, getting the proper amount of exercise requires more movement than my previous commitment. And because New York City lacks the out-of-doors that we have in such a surplus in the great state of Alabama, I’ve had to look for a gym. Just the word “gym” strikes fear in my heart. It brings up sour memories of “gym coaches” who wore unnaturally tight “gym shorts” and twirled whistles around their index fingers while we little ones were forced to run about.
Yes, yes I have bad memories of gyms. I still have nightmares about a chap who, in the third grade, had facial hair and weighed more than the coach. This moron esquire and ambassador of Cro-Magnon man to the 20th century, thought it amusing to “toss” the medicine ball at this columnist. Luckily, I survived to ridicule him in print.
Nonetheless, at the first given opportunity, I abandoned gym class forever. I threw out gym shorts; I forgot the combination to my lock; I even forgot how to do a jumping-jack.
So what has made me want to take up exercise again.
I ask you, why does any 23-year-old fellow pick up heavy things?
I’ll give you a hint: when a woman says “What I really want is a man with a sense of humor” don’t believe her — all a sense of humor ever got me was this column.
Thus, I’m going to the dang gym for the love of women.
Here in Gotham I looked at many a gym. Most are frightening. Music thuds. Women walk around in thongs and such. Men walk around in thongs and such.
I do not plan to ever don a thong.
On the whole, I was pretty disheartened by my gym tours. I don’t understand the equipment. I don’t understand the people. Moreover, I didn’t like their questions about how much bacon I eat in a week. Tofu sandwiches are not a motivating force for Morgan Murphy.
But then something strange happened. A very chic fashion friend of mine gave me a card that read “LA PALESTRA, Center for Preventative Medicine and suggested that I take a tour of the gym. “Preventative Medicine” had a nice ring to my ears – I imagined very old people who could easily show up on the treadmill.
Monday, I set out looking for the joint but had trouble finding it. Lodged in a dark, Gothic building, the only markings that let me know I was at the right place was the number above the door. I rang the bell and was buzzed in.
After walking down a long stainless steel corridor I came upon three very athletic types to who I said, “Hello, I have an appointment to
“Welcome, Mr. Murphy,” they said. This was unnerving.
Nonetheless, I agreed to a tour. Inside La Palestra, everything is clean and rather vintage looking. I was told who the designers were and how they tried to achieve the “feel” of the perfect home. Whatever. A gym is a gym, I thought. First I was taken to their cafe where I was informed that if I like raisin bagels, then by darned, La Palestra would stock raisin bagels for me. If I drank cranberry juice, then they’d have cranberry juice. All complimentary of course.
I though, “How much does this cost?”
We took a tour of the library – I thought, “How much does this cost?”
I was told that they would both provide and launder all of my gym clothes. Well la, la. Won’t that be special, we’ll all match. I thought, “How much does this cost?”
They introduced me to the gorgeous personal trainer who would work with me every week Ĺtalk about motivation) and I thought, “How much does it cost?”
They showed me the massage therapist who could fix all those cramps I got from chomping my raisin bagel too fast. I thought, “How much does this cost?”
A battery of tests was shown to me that I would undergo to measure my level of fitness. I thought, “How much does this cost?”|
At last, we arrived at the gym part. It looked like any other gym might. They even had medicine balls. But the happy gym folks informed me that the word “gym” was taboo and that I should refer to the gym as “the center” or ‘”the facilities” I thought,
“How much does this politically correct stuff cost?”
The happy center folks informed me that they would expect me in the center at least three days a week. I thought, “How much does this cost?”
Finally, my tour guide asked, “Do you have any questions?”
I was dying to ask The Question, but restrained myself by asking:
“Do you have California or Florida raisins on your bagels?”
“What time do you close?” “What does that machine over there do?” “Is this where
Julia Roberts works out?”
“Can I wear my Andalusia High School Bulldogs shirt?”
“Did I tell you I eat lots of bacon?”
I couldn’t take it anymore. They weren’t going to give me any hints either. In my calmest, oh-yes-I’ve-got-millions voice, I asked “So just out of curiosity, how much does this lovely gym, er, center cost?”
“Seven thousand dollars annually, Mr. Murphy,” she politely intoned.
Where was the complimentary Oldsmobile? Could I live there? Did they expect me to live off the raisin bagels? “Are you out of your mind woman?” I wanted to yell.
For seven grand I could swim laps in Fob James’ pool.
Instead I calmly picked my jaw up off the floor and said, “Does that include someone to do the exercise for me?” So Andalusia, throw another one on the skillet for me. I think I’m going to burn fat the old-fashioned way.