Returning to the Faith

I sit outside my cathedral of health eating a power bar. I imagine power bars received their name because of the strength of mind it takes to choke one down. I take a bite, my teeth snapping through the fibery nutrition. It falls apart in my mouth until it reaches the consistency of sand.
Why do things seem more edible because of a few well placed chocolate chips? I wonder.
I sip my water, washing down the granules of power, and walk to the entrance of healthy holiness. I enter, standing in the vestibule between the outer doors and the inner sanctum. I look for a container of holy water to cleanse myself of my caloric sins before entering the temple proper, but without one in sight, I continue to the sanctuary doors. I pull the handle and hear a rushing of air as a vacuum pulls the outer doors shut. A sense of finality lies hidden within the soft thump of the sealing doors. Now secure in the safety of the gym’s walls, I’m safe for a time from the world’s culinary temptations.
A perky blonde girl at the welcome center notices me. “Are you a member with us?”
“No, I’m meeting my cousin,” I answer her.
“Great,” she replies. “Afterward if you have an questions about membership, come see me, I would love to help you join our family at LA Fitness.” She stands there smiling in a black track suit: the garments of her order. Her blonde hair hangs gently onto her shoulders, and her bright red lips stand in stark contrast to her pale skin.
“Okay,” I respond, knowing her flirtations stop when my giving starts.
I will not succumb so easily, Health Whore, I think.
“KEITH!” My name echoes across the gym.
I look around and see my cousin, Gary, a gym addict, walking my way. Already two hours into his daily four hour workout, sweat runs down his face and falls onto his moisture-stained shirt. His broad shoulders taper down into a thin waist and his chest and arms are defined and bulging from the exertion of his workout. His body sculpting knowledge extends far beyond that of a mere layman. At sixteen he joined his first gym to escape the taunts of his skinner classmates, and then, during his two tours in Iraq, the gym became therapeutic for him. Now at twenty-five he practices health’s deepest theology, and he agreed to act as my personal worship leader for my return to the flock.
“DUDE, YOU MADE IT,” he exclaims, slapping my back.
“Yeah, I have to start working out. I need to get the weight off I put on after my hip replacement…”
“DUDE, IS THAT NOT THE BIGGEST BLACK DUDE YOU HAVE EVER SEEN?” He yells. Politically correct heads swivel to scowl at the ethnic fopaux.
“Shut up, man,” I whisper angrily.
“WAS THAT LOUD? YOU KNOW I CAN’T HEAR,” he says, while walking towards a guy checking in at the front desk.
During Gary’s first tour an IED destroyed his “stryker,” an armored fighting vehicle. He lost some hearing from the explosion, and now whenever he talks with his headphones in, he screams at whoever he talks with.
I watch him talk with “THE BIGGEST BLACK DUDE EVER.” They shake hands and moments later Gary points to his triceps. The other guy starts demonstrating the proper form for different exercises to build the triceps up. I watch amazed at Gary’s friendship winning charisma; like a six year old who has ADHD and a sugar high, he’s fun for a bit, but annoying after awhile.
Gary makes his way back to me.
“ALL RIGHT MAN, HERE WE GO,” he screams.
He leads me deep into the cavernous depths of the gym, the weight-bearing confessionals outline our path.
“SO UP FRONT WE HAVE THE MACHINES. IN THE BACK YOU’LL FIND THE FREE WEIGHTS.”
Eyes turn to watch Gary scream at me while he leads me through the different stations of penance.
Yes, people, I’m new here. I’ve been away from the faith for a long time, but I’m back, I feel like shouting.
“WE’RE GONNA START HERE WITH PULLUPS,” he screams. “THESE ARE GONNA HELP BUILD…”
“Gary,” I shout, “take out your headphones.”
“Sorry man, you know I can’t hear,” he says at a more normal level. “This is gonna work your upper back.”
I start my feeble attempt at a pullup. I garb the bar, shoulder width apart and pull myself up until I’m hanging just underneath the bar. I realize, while hanging there, I’ve reached the general position for a crucifixion; the burden of my high fructose sins weigh heavy on me.
For next hour we move from one back exercise to the next. He teaches me the importance of working down from the top of the muscle group to the bottom. We do lat pulldowns, standing rows, seated rows, dumbell rows, reverse flys, and more and more until I feel the power of Health’s Holy Ghost wash over me; or I feel the beginnings of a stroke.
In between each exercise I watch the other worshipers. I feel horribly out of place in my t-shirt and shorts. To fit in, I must cut the sleeves off all my shirts, and those shirts must, in some way, promote cage fighting.
“Hey, do you mind if I cut in for a set?” another gym member asks.
I have no idea what you just said.
“SURE MAN,” Gary shouts.
He begins preparations for the lat pulldown machine. A stop watch dangles from his neck. His spaghetti strap t-shirt has a plunging neck line which revels a bit of man cleavage without exposing his nipples.
Like the Jewish Kippah or a Mormon’s “garments,” holy garb always appears strange to a nonbeliever.
He reaches into his Tupperware, and removes a handful of gymnast chalk. He rubs his hands together and then claps. A cloud of white smoke billows outward. I almost expect him to disappear from where he stands, and reappear, already on the machine. I feel disappointed when he emerges from the cloud of chalky incense and sits down on the machine. He quickly pulls down an ungodly amount of weight several times. He looks at his stopwatch, which apparently tells him it’s time to leave.
“CARDIO FOR THE NEXT HOUR MAN,” Gary shouts at me.
“Headphones!”
“Sorry I can’t…” he begins, taking his headphones out of his ears, and speaking at a more normal level.
“I know you got blown up.”
“HA HA, YES I DID,” he yells again, laughing.
A high-pitched whine grabs my attention. I turn and see an old man with oxygen tubes in his nose drive toward us on a lark.
“THIS GUY,” Gary shouts.
The old man holds up one hand and Gary slaps it while he drives by.
“So listen, I can’t run and my doctor told me swimming will be great for me, so I’ll be in the pool,” I tell Gary.
“GREAT…sorry, great. I’ll come get you in an hour. We’ll finish up with a few minutes in the sauna. The heat will help the muscles stay limber.”
I enter the pool. A few years ago I found out that my years as a paratrooper caused arthritis to eat through the cartilage in my left hip, and I needed a hip replacement. I convalesced with all the other hip replacement patients. I was thirty-four, they were seventy; I was bitter. Around me, in the warm water of the gym pool, I watch the gray hair of all the other arthritic faithful bob in the water. I’ve watched too many commercials about products for older people. I worry about bladder control.
I finish my laps, and head to the sauna. Gary meets me half way.
“How do you feel man?”
“Not good,” I reply.
We enter the sauna and I step around a naked guy doing pushups in the corner.
Come on, the floor is scalding. By the time he gets done slapping his thing on the hot wood, it’s gonna look like a stubbed out cigarette.
“So what do you think man?” Gary asks. “Hang here with me this summer and we’ll cut that weight off you in no time.”
“Yeah, I’ll let you know,” I reply.
There is no way I will ever step foot back in this gym with you. I believe in the higher power of health, but you are a fanatic. I will work to become more healthy, but I will not sign up to fight in your holy war against the unhealthy. I will attend more regularly and not just after Easter and Christmas dinners, but I am not ready to declare jihad on junk food.
The sauna door opens, allowing a moment of cool air to filter in. With it comes an older man with a towel around his waist. He stands near the door and begins to open and close his towel, fanning himself, like some type of uncommitted flasher.
I’m done!
     A minute later he walks out, and I run for the gym exit. I can’t understand how people become addicted to the gym: I feel like I betrayed myself for allowing my cousin to torture me like he did. My confusion at the strange gym culture mixed with extreme dehydration makes me feel vulnerable. I need the encouragement of true friends. I pick up my phone. It rings once and then twice before someone answers. I smile, knowing I can always count on these guys. “Can I order a small cheese pizza please?”