I’ve Fallen in Love…

…with my gym.

You thought I was going to say baby, right?  Him too.  Love him.  I also love to leave him at at the gym’s “Kids’ Klub” for an hour.  He sleeps better there than at my own house, so it’s a win win.  I get some exercise.  A long, hot, uninterrupted shower.  Sometimes, I even blow dry my hair.  Yeah, that’s right, sometimes I blow dry my hair.  Uh huh.  I do.  And while he’s slumbering away, the other two are running around and getting exercise of their own on a giant indoor playground.  There’s even a camera, so I can watch them while I’m running on the treadmill (But who am I kidding?  I watch the news).

When I come to pick them up, they are oddly happy to see me.  There’s something about Kids’ Klub that gives them amnesia about all the time outs they had right before we left for Kids’ Klub.  It’s magic really.

Before the Gym_edited-1

So now that I’ve been a gym member for a couple of weeks, I am waiting for the compliments on my awesome figure to start rolling in.  “Third baby?  You look amazing!”  “How did you lose all that baby weight so fast?”  No one has actually said that yet, but it’s coming, I know it.  (Psssst, don’t tell anyone, but if I have lost any weight, it might be because we contracted gastroenteritis twice in 3 weeks.  Another reason to thank Kids’ Klub).

It wasn’t love at first sight for me and the gym.  The whole gym concept is very American, and sometimes, I don’t feel very American.  And oh, I love America.  I love being an American.  It’s the best country.  But repatriating can make you feel like a square peg in a round hole and the gym highlighted that for me.   After a while, I realized that “the gym” is basically the American equivalent of going to the Moroccan hamam.  There are probably cultural equivalents to the American gym all over the world.  So I am down with that.  And I’m really down with the American version because the hamam does not have child care.