30+, single, never married and running on a treadmill like a maniac. Do I sound like an aspiring Olympic athlete or like someone desperately running away from mid-life and mid-riff crises? Is there any difference between desperation and vulnerability?
I was early to gym that Saturday afternoon. Since my exercise routine was a bit monotonous, I was giving my mind a workout. I was thinking about how choosing a treadmill in the gym was sometimes like choosing a urinal in a public loo -- hormonal and exciting. I was looking for a clean spot with the best view. With only a few people there, I didn’t have any difficulty in making the right choice. I settled for a treadmill with a view of the main door and next to a mirror through which I could scope out the rest of the room. I settled into my jog and waited for a handsome payout from my strategic choice.
As I ran along, I thought about how treadmills are similar to the crossroads of life. People on treadmills and people at life’s crossroads have accumulated lots of mileage but still look ahead toward hope and good fortune. Spending time at the crossroads – just as on a treadmill -- is not always fun. If lucky, some discover their futures at the crossroads, while not-so-fortunate ones reflect on their pasts. And, as always at intersections, a few other passersby come into the picture and peering at the mirror can prevent collisions and collusions.
As I finished my first kilometer on my treadmill, I spotted him. A 22-year-old fawn with an athletic build, long legs, just covered with tender cartilage and right amount of fat, a broad forehead, bright smile exposing 32 and an impressive stamina for one so young. I tried to decide if I was running towards a brighter – and slimmer – future or if I was still mired in my past.
Be it on the treadmill or otherwise inclininations and speed changes can turn anyone sweaty, salty and salacious. I caught myself soaked in all three without ever having adjusted a single setting. The hand towel was not enough to cover or wipe away the evidence.
The mirror in front of me turned into binoculars as I scoped out the fawn and noticed that my prey was casting a few furtive glances at me. Thank god the treadmill I was on did not have a hormonal sensor showing my excitement levels.
I flashed a smile or two with no covert intentions. The fawn, arms length away, was struggling to focus on me without being obvious. And the chase was on!
Aren’t we unexposed, raw, and ridiculous just below the surface? I was already sweaty and nervous. His stare at my package and seductive looks were an aggressive move for a fawn as our chase thundered along. When did fawns turn carni-whore? I thought to myself. This was no fawn! This was a 22-year-old buck in full glory.
Suddenly instead of me chasing the fawn, I looked in the mirror and could see the fawn chasing me. Was it for real or lateral inversion from the mirror? Was he chasing love? Or lust? Was I trying to get away or let him catch me? I had only a few seconds to make a decision. Hormones were clouding my judgment and I was feeling short of breath. I was debating if I should ignore my conscience and moral principles and indulge my hormones.
Where was that emergency stop button? I managed to step off the treadmill without hitting the panic button and moved into the locker room. “Do one thing every day that scares you” Eleanor Roosevelt said. But was this young buck scaring me or himself? Should I really conspire with a stranger and satiate the hormonal villain in me? Or should I wage a war to protect my re-virginized self?
This old, shaggy and long-denied "doe" was being teased, taunted and awakened by this magnificent buck. I feigned bravado at his hormonal challenge as I tried to decide whether to pass through this crossroads or engage in the hormonal downpour?
I have been through many crossroads of life, but never in the past have I been a rudderless boat. Finally, I left the gym with my moral compass intact, but nevertheless I was lost. Was it always right and happy to follow the moral compass? Are the ones who throw the compass away lost and unhappy? For now I decided to walk the mill of life rather than worrying about the compass. Treadmills are stationary and unidirectional and don’t need compass.
I had gone to the gym to tackle a mid-riff crisis; I had not expected to meet a mid-life crisis while on the treadmill. Passing by a bakery on the way home, I forewent a glazed donut. Doe’s and Donuts are not scary anymore!
It is a little over 2 months since I met the Doe and neither of us has stopped running our treadmills of life. However transient life and friendships may be, some friendships are born and thrive on the move. Today both of us spend our evenings tackling our mid-riff crisis on the treadmill, not my mid-life one. We discuss the present, we ramble over the hits and misses in Doe’s life and we reminiscent the past without any repent. Isn’t this the best way to tackle mid-life and mid-riff crises?
