The stinky sock

I went to the gym the other day. I always had excuses not to go before, but now I have ZERO excuses not to go. Plus I want to get in shape to play volleyball for San Diego City College this fall (yes, at 27 I'm going to play sports for a community college), but that's a whole other story/blog.

Anyway, I was surprised to find some interesting contrasts at the 24 Hour Fitness on Balboa Avenue. They have a new fingerprint identification system so you don't have to bring your card (I guess this is something 24 Hour Fitness is trying in San Diego). Cool, I thought, this place is high-tech! With such a neat-o ID system, I expected everything in the gym to be new and slick. Oh yeah, and this is a 24 Hour Fitness Sport, so I expected it to be cavernous, light-filled and in a word, nice (I base this on the experience that every other 24 Hour Fitness Sport I've been to has been top notch).

However, once inside, this gym reminded me of this tiny rinky-dink gym I went to in college that was out in an industrial park. The gym was the cheapest around because it was small and in some places, even claustrophobic. The 24 Hour Fitness on Balboa Avenue reminds me of that gym. The cardio area was dark, had low ceilings and was a touch too small for the number of machines/sweaty people they had in there. The was a light odor of stale sweat that made me think the foam floor was at maximum capacity for sweat absorbency.

After using the stationary bike I went to use a pad for sit-ups. This pad was old and made of a kind of foam that allowed all the dirt and grime to get stuck in the crevices - yuck! While doing my sit-ups I looked up at the ceiling to see water marks.

In 2005 the 24 Hour Fitness company had an annual revenue of $1.1 billion per year and 300 million (!) members. Jesus. With all that dough coming in, you'd think they'd have some cash left over for repairs/upgrades to their gyms. On the 24 Hour Fitness website they have a photo gallery where you can "see inside the clubs". The photos for the sport-style club show you what I was expecting to see, however they cover their ass by saying "Actual club appearance may vary." It's a nice way of saying, here are some photos our flagship clubs and the rest of them may, or may not be, well, crappy.

Anyway, I just wanted to rant about that. My new name for that gym is The Stinky Sock, so when I say, "Well, I went to the Stinky Sock today..." you'll know what I mean.

Actually, I think Stinky Sock is a good name for a laundromat. Anyone want to put up some investment capital to open a Stinky Sock with me? I'll offer you 50% of all the revenue for the first five years and all the dirty, smelly, abandoned socks you could ever want.

Oh the horror...

When I was working, I had nightmares about work all the time. I often dreamt that I didn't make it to an important meeting or television segment on time or that I forgot to do something of paramount importance and ruined an entire event. I thought that these so-called "stress dreams" would stop when I stopped working, but they haven't.

I've had three nightmares in a little more than a week. In these dreams I'm back at work even though I've quit and they usually involve my boss ridiculing me in front of others. In one dream I got chewed out for not being on top of something that had to do with a Rod Luck television segment. In the dream Rod ended up having his face burned by some wayward fireworks...oops. Poor Rod - though I'm sure he'd take an at-work accident over the legal issues he's dealing with right now.

So how long will it take for my work nightmares to stop? People with PTSD have recurring nightmares all the time, but I doubt that my work environment was stressful enough to rank me among the Iraq soldiers who've returned home with PTSD and dream about IEDs all the time. In fact, I'll take a mutilated-Rod-Luck-face-dream any day over anything those poor soldiers have to dream about. Sweet dreams.

How I got here

So, a few months ago I decided it was time to move on from my job. After nearly five years I needed something different. I gave two months notice – what I thought would be plenty of time to find a new job.

My husband knew how much I needed to get away from my work environment and told me we’d be OK for “awhile” if I didn’t find a new job right away. Since he’s more financially savvy than me, I’ve let him take care of our finances for the last few years. So in truth I was ignorant to how long “awhile” might be (and maybe I just didn’t want to know).

As time wore on during the last weeks at my job, cover letter writing and searching Craigslist and Monster for that perfect new position seemed less and less important. I knew if I found something they’d probably want me to start right away and I was looking forward to leaving business casual and deadlines behind, even if only for a few weeks. I imagined sleeping in, lunching with friends and being one of those people I saw shopping unhurriedly while I ran my errands in lightspeed on my half-hour lunch breaks.

At a party a few weeks ago I told a friend my plans to take some time away from working and she said, “Well that’s good, so long as you can enjoy it and not get stressed out.” Not enjoy it - was she crazy? And how could I be stressed when I was ditching my biggest source of stress and angst? How could I be tense when I would be beholden to no one – imagine a weekday at home where I didn’t have to call in sick or take a vacation day? It was almost unfathomable.

And so here I am in my first week of unemployment. It’s 11:45 a.m. on a Thursday and my cat is sitting on my lap as I type this in my “home office” (my kitchen table + laptop + cell phone). In my first week “off” I’ve been hiking and to the beach on a Monday afternoon and thrift shopping on a Wednesday. Being at these places at these times is almost like traveling to a foreign country - things are generally the same, but somehow everything seems just a little bit different on weekday time. And now I’m off to be one of those leisurely shoppers I used to envy. I’m going to compare prices, read labels and take my time...