Last night I went to the gym and it was congested, sweaty, and loud. The local gym that I frequent is usually quiet when I stumble into it in a sleepy daze once the sun licks the horizon. My anxiety was through the roof, and I just didn't feel right, so I shook it up with light cardio. My heavy metal music was loud enough to make my ears bleed, but it closed me in and all I saw were the minutes ticking by on the treadmill machine.
I felt slow. I felt weak. I felt tired. I wondered why the fuck I was at a crowded gym when all I wanted was to be alone.
I stomped over to the deadlifting area, and loaded the bar. I didn't count the weights, I just threw them on. I didn't care. All I remember was that I had 45s, 20s, and an erratic number of 5s and 10s choking the barbell.
I pulled the weight and it felt heavy. And I was pissed. I was pissed because even though I didn't count the weight, I knew it couldn't be more than 225 pounds -- a number that I once was able to easily handle. Although I lifted the weight for triples, I felt my form breaking. I mumbled 'fuck you' at the chalked barbell and peeled the weight off of it. I stood over the barbell, staring at it. Tears began swell up so I went to a quiet area to stretch and clear my mind.
I was just having a really bad day. Pulling iron usually offers some relief, but not last night. I failed on the platform, I failed on the treadmill, I failed at keeping focused. I was tough on myself, but not in a way that was at all productive. Sometimes the gym is my sanctuary, but last night it was my hell. But it wasn't the gym that made me mad, it just didn't line up with the expectations I had.