Two Weeks in the West Loop

I’ve abandoned my cozy North side studio for the industrious hustle of the West Loop. Two weeks feels like a lifetime when your bed is only 30 minutes away. I want to go home.

Staying in the West Loop is a bit of a culture shock, to say the least.  Though it is nice to be within walking-distance of the Loop (I walked to the House of Blues on Saturday night), I’m a walking insecurity.

As I live among the Chads and Trixies, I can’t help but feel insecure.They have money and are impeccably dressed. My Old Navy yoga pants and Red Sox T-shirts don’t really fit in, even for dog-walking. They drive new BMWs, have expensive watches, and shine their shoes.

The Chads are well-built machines of weightlifting madness. Their muscles bulge under their Ed Hardy (why hasn’t this fad died?) T-shirts.   They aren’t polite, they do not look at me. They are more inclined to talk to the dogs I’m watching than me.

The Trixies walk the hallways in their bikinis, carefree living by the pool with their cucumber water.  They wear their tight yoga pants, while they leisurely recumbent bike for 10 minutes as their only workout for the day, yet have amazing bodies.

In a building this big, there’s always someone in the gym. I’m been going everyday and each time is awkward. I watch people with near-perfect bodies work closer to perfection, while I’m struggling to move closer to average. I feel judged. I feel weak.

I miss my gym on the north side.  Attached to a hospital, it’s filled with ‘old people.’ Some are doctors, some nurses from the hospital on a break, running with their cell phone clipped on their scrubs. Some are mothers, wheeling in a screaming toddler, pacified by animal crackers and sippy cups in the daycare, while mom finds an hour of silence surrounded by adults. Most are over 65 and walk the track, recovering from surgery under the care of a physical therapist.

The north side gym is full of faces I know. All of the trainers are encouraging and close to my age. One of the trainers played football at my alma mater and gives me a high-five every morning. There’s a group of older gentlemen who walk every morning at the same time I’m there, and wave when they see me on the elliptical machine. One of them brings me a Dixie cup of water every morning about 45 minutes into my cardio workout, which started one day when he said I wasn’t smiling enough.

The north side gym feels like home. Taking a two-week break from that gym feels like punishment. There are some days when going to the gym is my only interaction with others, and I miss my waving old men. I miss my high-fives. I especially miss Dixie Cups.

In the West Loop, I’ve kept my workouts on track, watching baseball or listening to music while I run, putting my blinders on to the people around me the best I can. I’ve been picking the machines in which I have the best view of the skyline…

I count windows on the Sears Tower.

I watch the clock on the Boeing building, instead of the one of the elliptical machine.

I study lines and symmetry of buildings, ignoring those sitting poolside.

One more week of heightened insecurities. One more week of working out in a room with floor/ceiling mirrors that show every body flaw as I lift. One more week of people talking to the dogs in the elevators instead of me.

One more week and I can move on with my life.

Advertisement