I have always hated the gym. Not in a casual, “Oh, I don’t feel like working out today” kind of way, but in a deep, visceral, “I would rather study math while listening to elevator music” way. And yet, every few years, I find myself in a new episode of self-delusion, convinced that this time will be different. Spoiler: it never is. 

Act One: The Great Collapse
The first time I truly wanted to commit to the gym was when I moved to Ashrafieh to work for some agency.  My friend told me about a superhero with a gym in his building. So, I enrolled without any hesitation, full of goodwill and self-confidence.

Day 1. Minute 13 of the workout. I woke up in the gym kitchen with mazaher/orange flower water on my forehead, the receptionist staring at me like I had just fought in a war. It turns out that enthusiasm alone is not enough to power through cardio when you’ve spent the last decade treating workouts as a hobby, not a necessity.

Lesson learned? Not quite. 

Act Two: Treadmill binge
Years later, happy with my new gym membership in the hippiest gym in town and a misplaced sense of optimism, I returned. This time, I discovered a loophole: treadmills have screens facing them. If you walk slow enough, you can basically watch an entire TV series while technically working out. I proudly binged a whole season of Orange is the New Black this way, convincing myself that laughter was engaging my core.  

Act Three: unlucky number 21
Spinning was the new hype, so naturally, I found myself sitting in the waiting area of a trendy spin gym, wanting to belong. The receptionist informed me that the class was full, but I could wait for a now show. At the last minute, the coach strutted over, all smiles. “You’re so lucky!” he announced. “Number 21 didn’t show up. You get their bike!”

Fast-forward to minute 43 of a 45-minute class, and my leg starts tingling. At first, I thought, Wow, finally, muscle activation! Then I looked down. A neat little trail of blood was decorating my Nikes and the floor. Fainting, I dragged myself toward the reception area. The coach was making hand gestures. I was seeing double. No, triple. BAM. Floor.

They carried me to the ER, where I was awarded 30 stitches thanks to a “faulty bike”. Instead, the plastic thing that was supposed to secure my foot had been methodically shredding my leg. 

Bonus Act
Then came the phase where I decided my issue wasn’t exercise. It was aesthetics. Maybe, just maybe, if I had the right outfit, I would suddenly become one of those people who wake up at 6 AM to lift weights. So, I bought the cutest outfits, color-coordinated Stella McCartney sets (that I still have today) from head to toe, looking like I belonged in a fitness campaign (minus the blubber on my cheese-and-wine grown belly). Did I ever actually exercise in them? No. But I looked fantastic while walking in and out of different gyms, testing their vibes before never returning. 

The Grand Finale
And then, something happened. I stumbled upon reformer Pilates.