Three sets of 10 reps each, and -- what's that guy doing?

A favorite childhood book, and mantra, of mine was "The Little Engine That Could." I appreciated, even at a young age, how the train engine had a goal, and despite obstacles, did everything it could to meet that goal, encouraged by his friends. Albeit the pictures of dolls and clowns and toy soldiers were a bit outdated (who even has toy soldiers anymore?), but the concept remained universally true.

Unfortunately my efforts to apply this concept to my physical exercise routine have fallen short. My spirit is willing but my resolve is so weak. For me, the hardest part of working out is getting in the car and driving the four miles up the road to the local YMCA, which is a great facility, and at which I have a free membership. (Yes, free, but that's another story.) As I drive those four measly miles in the air-conditioned car, flipping through the stations for a song from an artist who at least has a driver's license, I think how lame it is that I'm driving at all, and how I should be able to jog those four miles to the gym. Tons of people have walked or run four miles before I'm even out of REM sleep in the early morning hours. My grandmother has walked miles and miles every morning for as long as I can remember. And I complain about lacing up my sneakers (which, I should add, I just bought as motivation for me to go to the gym more)?

Last night as watched nothing in particular on TV, I whipped up a batch of cookie dough. At my house, cookie dough rarely makes it to the oven. Most of the time I don't bother to turn the oven on. This is a reality I am not ashamed to admit. So, as I absentmindedly ate dough from the bowl with a spoon, I resolved to hit the gym today.

Seriously.

I have to get to the gym.

I feel like a beached whale on this couch.

It's gross.

(But this cookie dough is awesome.)

I am proud to say I did make it to the gym today. I reacquainted myself with the elliptical and the treadmill and did a few miles on each. I figured one big spoonful was equal to one mile, and another half-mile covers the chocolate chips I ate right out of the bag that had no chance of making it into the dough. I looked for a dessert-guilt-lessening gauge between heart rate and distance, but couldn't find one.

As I huff and I puff (note the appropriate pig reference) and burn calories, I like to people-watch. I love to see that all kinds of people come to the YMCA. It really is a family-friendly place, so I see all demographics there. Little kids run around in Dora the Explorer swimsuits, and elderly people have coffee and talk about the good ol' days that included plowing fields as a form of exercise.

I also notice a gym brings out some interesting behavior.

I, like a lot of people, was insecure and self-conscious at first about working out in public. I didn't want everyone looking at me. Are they judging me? What if I do something weird, or wrong, or everyone laughs because I can only do three girly push-ups?

Well I got over that soon enough, but I think for a lot of people, insecurities still plague them.

Take, for example, a man who walks in in a tight t-shirt, sneakers, athletic shorts, and weightlifting gloves. Major swagger. His head is held high. He knows he is yoked. I gotta respect him for the work he has already put into his body, and I sort of want to ask him how much he can lift. I watch him (hoping he doesn't see me, trying not to be creepy or look like I am bucking for a dinner invitation).

He surveys the room, checking out the free-weights and the machines, and he makes a decision.

He stretches. He flexes. He sets the weight.

One rep, two reps, three reps, four.

Stop. Flex. Stretch.

Take a lap around the room.

Get a drink of water.

Check out the girl on the Stairmaster.

Exit through the double doors.

Huh? Just like that, he left. I'm baffled. Surely he's coming back. But he doesn't, at least not in the rest of the time I'm there. Is that really his workout?

I've noticed several people do this sort of thing -- they come in, do maybe 15 minutes worth of work, and leave. I must be missing the chromosome that allows for serious muscle definition with such little work.

Take also the perky blonde in the yellow Victoria' Secret PINK pants who comes in to work out while chatting on her cell phone. I don't know about her friends, but my friends are not interested in hearing me out of breath, jogging on the treadmill, trying to explain EXACTLY what he said and what I thought he meant when he said that and how I feel about what I think he meant when he said it.

Just today I also watched an elderly man shuffle into the workout room, in camouflage-print slippers, survey the equipment (similar to muscular-short-workout guy, but with less swagger), and decide on a stationary bike. He gingerly climbed on, cycled a few times, and reached in his shirt pocket to pull out a cell phone to take a call. He chatted for a few minutes, and continued to cycle.

A few minutes later, I see him again on another machine. On the cell phone.

Who are all these people who can work out and carry on conversations simultaneously? I must not be at that level of physical fitness. It's hard for me to even watch tv without losing my balance, and when the ground is moving underneath me, I need to focus as much as possible.

I also see a lot of teenagers at the gym; I presume a lot of them are student athletes. They mostly just look like they'd rather be somewhere else. As teenagers tend to be insecure and self-conscious as a general rule, I'm not surprised, but I wonder how this environment (a non-threatening YMCA with mostly strangers) compares to a high-school athletic center, filled with spirited competition, raging testosterone and towel-popping.

In addition to these interesting characters, I see many people, young and old, who I respect for seeking active, healthy lifestyles. I strive to be one of them. It takes motivation and hard work for anyone to lose weight, if that is a goal, or just try to be fit, which is mine.

Maybe this year I'll be able to jog that four miles to the YMCA, and four miles back.

And I try to eat cookie dough in moderation; I've switched to a smaller spoon.