The gym was right outside work.
I could see it in the morning, when I was nearly late, and again in the evening, when I had several reasons.
It was an excellent location. I admired it regularly.
When we signed up, I thought we had solved the difficult part. No journey across town. No elaborate detour. The building was practically introducing itself every time I went to work.
“Now we’ll actually go,” I said.
My husband agreed. We were very convincing when discussing the people we were about to become.
Each morning, I arrived with just enough time to avoid being late and not quite enough time to feel as though I had arrived.
A bag went down. A screen came on. Someone needed something. I remembered something else.
By the time I had taken my coat off properly, the day had already started giving instructions.
The gym could wait. It was right there.
At the end of the day, I passed its windows on the way out. Inside, people were doing the thing I had intended to do. I would glance at them with the weary affection of someone watching relatives in another country.
Tomorrow looked more promising.
Tomorrow had not yet received its emails.
The membership fee went out every month.
It never needed to check how the week was looking. It did not wait for a quieter period or a reassuring message from somebody else. On the appointed day, it simply went.
I had arranged for one part of my gym membership to be remarkably consistent.
One night, I dreamed the gym had moved closer.
Its front door was beside my desk. I could reach the handle without getting out of my chair.
“Much better,” I said. “I’ll go when I finish this.”
The door waited.
By lunchtime, it had moved between me and the printer.
I walked around it.
By evening, the treadmills were in the lift. I stood among them with my work bag and pressed the button for the ground floor.
The gym had done everything short of exercising on my behalf.
Going together helped.
When a few of us agreed on a time, the afternoon acquired an edge. I knew when I needed to stop. There was someone to meet, something to leave for.
I liked the company. I liked having a reason to put my bag down somewhere other than home.
Then one person couldn’t make it. Another had something run over.
“No problem,” I typed.
I was, however, surprisingly quick to decide that their plans had changed mine.
My gym bag remained closed. I carried it home like a very small business trip that had been cancelled.
What bothered me eventually was how familiar this felt outside the gym.
I kept arriving at things when they had already begun. My mornings were a series of narrow escapes, and I was asking the rest of the day to recover from them.
I wanted to be more proactive. I liked the word. It sounded like a woman who knew where her keys were.
But I had been leaving most of the decisions to a version of myself who was already running late.
One evening, I took out my gym clothes.
I put them where they would be the first thing I saw when I came out of the shower.
Not tucked tidily away. Not waiting in a drawer for a sudden change in character.
There, ready.
My husband looked at the little pile.
“Are those staying?”
“Yes.”
He nodded with the care of someone who has learned that not everything on a chair is laundry.
The next morning, I came out of the shower and saw them.
For a moment, I had the odd feeling that somebody had remembered something for me.
I picked them up.
The question had arrived before the rush, while I could still answer it.
I began preparing a little more the evening before. I decided when I meant to go instead of carrying the idea around all day and hoping it would find an opening.
Some mornings were still a mess. I did not emerge from the shower as a woman with perfect discipline and matching containers for everything.
Once, I lifted the whole pile to look for my phone. There it was, underneath the leggings, reminding me it was time to leave.
I stood holding my gym clothes while reaching to dismiss the reminder.
Then I put them on.
The group still mattered. It was nicer going with people. There was company, and the small comfort of somebody else also having had a long day.
But I started giving myself an answer for the days they couldn’t come.
I could still go.
The first time a message arrived changing the plan, I began my usual reply. No problem. Another day.
I stopped after the first sentence.
My things were ready. I had made room. Nothing about those facts had changed.
“See you next time,” I added.
Then I picked up my bag.
Outside work, I turned towards the gym.
For once, I used the door.
