At the J

Been workin’ out at the J.

Workin’ out doesn’t come naturally to me. Where I was raised everyone knew that if you lived your life right (i.e., you “worked hard”), you would never need to waste time “workin’ out.” That’s my moral excuse. Beyond that, I hate doggedly doing repetitive things that hurt. Who can argue with faux moral reasoning buttressed by disdain?

Around here the J is The Mandel Jewish Community Center of Cleveland. Those who don’t know it as intimately as I do call it the J.C.C. Those initials are not to be truncated into J.C., because doing that opens a can of theological worms.

How did a life-long Gentile like me get so cozy with the J? Simply put, my wife made me do it.

Maxine thought I needed to start workin’ out. That’s because, I suspect, she sees me as I am in ways I do not. Something about tall and skinny me oozing into a bulge at my middle.

Maxine has been workin’ out for some time now. She started with an inexplicable devotion to running, which is the very definition of “repetitive” in my lexicon. About a year ago she added visiting a place for women called “Curves” to her running regimen, and when the Curves closest to us closed she decided it was time for us to find a place to work out together. So when the J offered a deeply discounted sign-up fee for new members in January, we were in. Both of us. Just like that.

I must admit that the sales tour was pretty convincing. Our guide didn’t flinch when, in response to her question, I told her I was a retired Presbyterian minister. The J seems as eager to welcome non-Jews as the Y is to welcome non-Christians. When it comes to our bodies, we are a lot of more inclusive than when it comes to our souls.

A large number of blacks (African-Americans, I presume) work out at the J, but I haven’t noticed many Asians or other obvious ethnic groups...except all those who “look Jewish,” some of whom may be Arab - even Muslim - for all I know. We all just do our thing, carefully wiping off the equipment we’ve just used with towels sprayed with disinfectant. So there is a limit to how inclusive we are of one another’s bodies.

The J seems to me to be a fine place for the kind of place that it is, though you’ve probably already figured out that I am poor judge of gyms. A lot of machines and bar bells and straps and harnesses and contraptions that look like something in a medieval torture chamber are arranged in a convex semi-circle facing a huge expanse of glass that looks out on one of Cleveland’s many Jewish schools. A track bearing a forgiving surface circles two full-sized basketball courts that can be sub-divided into smaller spaces for all the kinds of activities that thrive on shiny hardwood floors. There are two large pools, one inside and the other out. There’s a Pilates room, a spinning room, a Yoga Room, a den for the trainers who prowl the J, a sauna (apparently on long-term disability) and a men’s room that’s a whole lot better than I remember from junior high. I am sure the women’s room is even nicer in a feminine sort of way.

Amenities include a place you can leave your kids with licensed care-givers and a lot of stuff to destroy, a kosher Subway Shop, and a “Treasures from the J” shop featuring gifts and trinkets from Israel. One day I bought a loaf of Lax and Mandel challah (baked “Under Rabbinical Supervision if Bag Contains Bread Net Weight 16 Oz or Over”) for $4.00. Delicious. What you gain workin’ out you lose on the way out...or is it that what you lose workin’ out you gain on the way out? You know what I mean.

After a trainer named John welcomed me, showed me a computer-generated graphic of how much better I’ll look “after” compared to now “before”, and set me loose to work out on a series of machines, I determined to go to the J three or so times a week. “Or so” is central to that determination, but I’ve been pretty good about it. For a small fee, John will meet me again to reset my path on other machines and weights and ropes and stuff. I’m saving up for that.

I have made some progress. I can pull/push/lift/drag/grunt through an additional 5 or 10 or 20 pounds on most of the machines, and I can bicycle in place farther than when I started. I am glad for that, because my motivation for getting into this is to be able to go farther and longer and easier on my yellow Schwinn this spring than I could last fall. Unfortunately, spring is coming much faster than I am peddling, and all my workin’ out may be put to the test before I am ready. Meantime, I tell myself I am lookin’ better.

But here’s my dilemma: it is not polite to look any way but straight ahead at the J. You certainly are not to stare at others, because, in the spirit of the most universal of universal rules, you must not do unto others what you would not have them do unto you. Until today I’d never caught anyone admiring their emerging new and improved physiques in the mirrors that shadow the weight and stretching areas. But sometimes you just can’t help comparing yourself to others. And when I accidentally glance around, or catch people out of the corners of my eyes, I am sometimes encouraged, but more often discouraged.

There are a lot of really old people at the J, some who can hardly walk, and I’ve even seen a woman pushing herself in a wheelchair among the machines. I think I look better than they do, until I remember they are workin’ out against really tough physical challenges, and then they look pretty darned good. The wheel-chair bound woman actually climbed on machines and worked them. I don’t know that I would be that persistent.

There are many younger elderly types who look a lot like me, whom I try to follow around on the machines so I can find out how much weight they are able to chest press, etc. I cannot easily tell if they encourage or discourage me; they, like me, just are what we are.

I confess to feeling a certain moral superiority over the guy who passively peddles his bike while reading the Wall Street Journal. What earthly good is he doing himself, body wise? It’s too easy; he should be ashamed of himself.

Finally, there are those spectacular few of both sexes and all ages who just plain look great. They completely discourage me because the chances of me ever looking great are nil. I didn’t look great when I was 17, 27, or 37, so it’s not about to happen when I’m pushing 70 - but don’t tell John I said that.

And I have to admit that I don’t work out all that hard (don’t tell Maxine I said that). Is it because I am running classical music through my iPod Shuffle? Whatever, I can’t think of a good reason to impose any more than moderate pain and agony upon my only body. It has served me quite well for decades without a lot of effort on my part, and doesn’t deserve punishment. So I’ll just continue to ease into workin’ out, that easin’ made easier because I’m doin’ it at the J.