Pottruck. Apparently it’s the tall red building around the corner from my dorm. The one I pass on occasion when Locust is too crowded with flyers and when my sense of adventure insists that I risk passing a few armed robbers on Walnut. (Too soon?) As a sophomore, I can’t pretend that I’ve never actually been inside. In fact, before this past week, I’d ventured into the sweat shack a couple of times. But really, just a couple. Twice. To watch my friends’ water polo games.
Then came the text from my new sorority sister and future housemate inviting me to join her at the gym. We have one of those relationships where situational circumstances like mutual friends have forced us together, and we’re trying our best to mold these factors into a real friendship. I wasn’t about to be the one who screwed that up.
An hour later, we were at Pottruck, and before I could say, “Oh, that’s the rock–climbing wall,” she was leading me into the main treadmill room. You know, the one with the gorgeous people and the really big windows. After a thorough inspection of the room, we discovered no available treadmills, and while my mouth formed, “Aww shucks,” my mind screamed, “Praise the baby Moses!”
My friend led the way upstairs, which baffled me because I didn’t realize that there was an upstairs. As it turns out, there are a few of them. Thankfully, the elliptical I sniped had a Quickstart button (though I’m now informed that they all do), so I just pressed that and pretended I knew what I was doing until the girl behind me started creeping and I felt inclined to bump up my level. As sweat streamed down my face 15 minutes later, I looked around at the Grecian gods and goddesses around me, sprinting casually with their faces clear while mine was turning the color of my mother’s borscht.
Luckily, my friend sauntered over at that moment. Unluckily, she suggested we hit the weight room. I only had a vague idea of what that really meant, but a minute later, I found myself on some sort of contraption with my legs spread in an awkward position, loudly muttering to myself and putting on a bigger show than the kid wearing a Mask & Wig pinny. (If you see me on campus, please pretend you didn’t read this. Thanks.) Placed in an uncomfortable position (pun intended) and knowing not what to do with myself, I decided to pull “The Locust” and pretended to text. But then my mom actually did text me, so I felt incredibly popular and the situation was salvaged.
Like all good things, the Pottruck adventure eventually came to an end, but not until I was led me to a bunch of mats and told to work out my triceps. Or maybe they were my biceps. What’re those muscles hangin’ out in your stomach area? Whatever.
Final consensus: this was fun and all, but I’d rather be on the other side of the big scary treadmill windows. Hit me up when you wanna grab dinner, though.
