The Great Gym Disaster: A Tale of Sweat, Shame, and Spandex.

There comes a time in every adult's life when they look in the mirror and think: “Hmm. I should probably start working out… or at least be able to climb stairs without gasping like I’ve been chased by wolves.”

So I joined a gym.

Let me clarify something right away—I am not a gym person. I’m more of a couch athlete . I excel in remote-control lunges and popcorn curls. But I thought, how hard could it be?

Turns out, very hard .

Day 1: The Locker Room of Doom

My gym journey started with me trying to open a locker. I spent ten minutes entering the wrong code on a digital lock until I realized: it wasn’t my locker. I had broken into someone else's space.

I panicked, slammed it shut, and ran into the bathroom pretending I was lost and possibly European.

I later found my real locker, which I somehow did manage to lock... forever. Even the staff couldn’t open it. My hoodie is probably still in there, living its best life.

Day 2: Machines of Mayhem

I bravely approached the treadmill like it owed me money.

I hit “Quick Start,” expecting a gentle walk. Instead, it launched into “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE” mode. I was immediately flailing like a drunken flamingo. My left shoe flew off. Some guy yelled, “YO, YOU OKAY?”

I wasn’t.

And who designs these machines? I swear one of them started speaking in what sounded like angry Klingon. Another one beeped so much, I think I accidentally set it to launch missiles .

Day 3: The Personal Trainer Incident

I signed up for a free session with a personal trainer named Brock. Brock was 99% muscle, 1% protein shake. His eyebrows could lift weights.

“Let’s warm up,” he said. That sounded doable.

Ten minutes later, I had done:

30 jumping jacks

20 squats

15 burpees (which I thought were just cute hiccups from cartoons)

10 push-ups (I mostly just laid down and groaned)

A full-blown existential crisis

I faked an asthma attack halfway through and dramatically whispered, “Save yourself, Brock.”

Day 4: Zumba-Zombie

Group classes sounded fun. Music! Dancing! People!

Wrong. Zumba is a demon ritual disguised as cardio.

Everyone was moving in sync like a Broadway cast. I was in the back flapping like a confused bat trying to escape a ceiling fan.

The instructor yelled, “Pop those hips!” My hips popped— literally . Something in my body cracked like bubble wrap. A lady next to me offered me holy water.

Day 5: The Sauna Situation

Feeling sore, I thought, “Let’s relax in the sauna.” I imagined peaceful sweating, deep thoughts, maybe bonding with a wise old man.

What I got was:

A room so hot it melted my phone case

A guy doing yoga stretches in the corner wearing only a towel (which he wore like a suggestion )

The overwhelming scent of eucalyptus and regret

I left ten minutes later, spiritually dehydrated and mentally scarred.

Day 6: Smoothie Betrayal

The gym has a juice bar. “Fuel your workout,” the sign says.

So I ordered something called the “Power Cleanse.” Ingredients: kale, beetroot, ginger, chia seeds, and something called “liquid light.”

It tasted like betrayal and lawnmower clippings. I drank half and considered filing a police report. My intestines have not forgiven me.

Day 7: “It Gets Easier,” They Said

By the end of the first week, I couldn’t laugh without hurting my abs. Which is ironic because I don’t have abs—I just have a soft, confused area that feels personally attacked.

I asked a regular gym-goer, “Does it ever stop hurting?”

She looked me dead in the eyes and said, “No. You just learn to enjoy the pain.”

…Cool. So now we’re in a masochist cult with dumbbells ?

The Final Straw

The moment I knew I wasn’t built for gym life was when I slipped off a yoga ball and rolled straight into a mirror. Full speed. Made eye contact with myself mid-roll. It was like watching my own life flash before my eyes... in leggings.

The mirror cracked.

Not from the impact—probably from secondhand embarrassment.

Epilogue: Couch Life Redemption

So now, I work out at home using beginner YouTube videos with encouraging instructors who say things like “You’re doing great!” even when I’m lying flat on the mat, eating pretzels.

Do I still own a gym membership? Yes. It’s now a donation to the fit community.

Do I miss it? Sometimes. Especially Brock. His eyebrows haunt me.

But hey, I’m sweating less, limping less, and I can finally do a push-up. Just one. But it counts.

Moral of the Story:

The gym is not for everyone. And that’s okay. Whether you’re lifting weights or lifting snacks, as long as you’re trying… you’re doing great.

And if you’re ever tempted to do Zumba again, just lie down until the feeling passes.