A Bout With Balboa

I am a woman of routine. As much as I like to think that I am all for jumping in the water and going with the flow, I really like to just dangle my feet......or wade. I have worked out rather religiously since tearing my ACL as a freshman in high school (ten years ago now). Granted, I've played sports for as long as I can remember, but after injury I was immediately put on a strict rehab regimen. I have been running ever since. Simply running - me, my headphones, and the ground beneath my feet. Since I worked at the YMCA for 4 years and a FREE membership was included in my services, I have been plugged-in to the fitness center environment.
I was dead set on continuing my practice when I left the country, though it has been rather difficult considering I don't speak the language. After much frustration yet much glee, I finally got to join a gym this past weekend. It was necessary not only for my schedule, but it has quickly become frightfully cold outside.
For the low price of $40 a month I not only get my wonderful treadmill, but also a kickboxing room, a clean set of workout clothes each visit, my own lock and locker, and a personal trainer. His name is Andy, and he knows 5 words in English - weight, fat, muscle, break, and treadmill. He thought he knew 6 words, but I had to kindly tell him that "veck" was not considered part of my native tongue ("back" I eventually figured out..... my 7 year olds call it Konglish.) After a week I now almost feel adjusted. Well, there is the whole locker room dilemna.......the day I am comfortable conducting my morning preperations surrounded by completely naked women squaking in mumbo jumbo is, well, never. But, heck, I get to hear techno Miley Cyrus and Van Halen on a daily basis. That says home.