Sweat? No Sweat.

Well, fooey. I misspelled "phooey" in that previous post. I like the look of "fooey," though.

Yesterday I spent a few pleasant hours that offer an argument for why more Birminghamians should move downtown. I left our building and walked about two or three blocks, mailed a large package at the UPS store. Walked another two blocks and was at the YMCA.

I confess that this was my very first trip to said Y, and I am ashamed (or would be if my old pal-trainer Juan from the Logan Square--or rather, McCormick--Y knew this). Trips to the Y were a regular part of my week back in Chicago, and when we chose this apartment its proximity to a new Y seemed like a huge benefit. Indeed, I planned to hustle over there right away to resuscitate what was then already a weakened regimen, to practice yoga 2-3x a week too, etc. (How could I be expected to sweat and pant back in September and October? All my energy was tapped for crying jags.) Well. We've been here almost three months, and until yesterday all I'd managed were a couple of downward dogs and twists in the guest bedroom, and a couple of halfhearted appearances on the treadmill downstairs in our building, in a dim, depressing little room that is too cold and thus makes me wheeze. I partly stayed away from the Y for because money was tight, but let's be honest: I mostly stayed away because I got lazy.

So now, basic principles of cause and effect being what they are, I am squishy. (And, as ever, full of chocolate.) Can't take it anymore. Going downhill. Even the husband who never has neg word one to say about my corporeal self, has noted that, well, I feel kinda different when he cozies up to me before sleep.

So, back to the Y. I finally went, and was impressed. This Y is like a W hotel compared to the Holiday Inn quality of our little Logan Square outpost. I will maintain fond memories of that place, of course: The salsa music, the ex-cons among whom I tried to do my thing with the free weights, friendly Angel with his sweat band always in place, and most of all, Dominican-born Juan and the Abs class he taught in English so thickly accented none of us had any idea what he was saying half the time.

But check it out: The Birmingham Y offers me clean towels for free use. The ladies' locker room is stocked with a whole set of free weights for gals who'd rather not work out next to grunting macho men. There are mini-bottles of shampoo and other toiletries for sale. There's even a cafe with smoothies and Izze soft drinks. Yesterday, a sandwich with asiago cheese was the special.

Pilates, yoga, and a bunch of other group classes. Sauna and steam. A pool. An indoor track. In terms of amenities, this beats the McCormick hands down. Hell, it even beats New City. Maybe this explains why the membership is more expensive than in Chicago, though I still think that's odd. (See? It's nuts. Everything costs us more here!)

Post-workout, I walked about a block to the bank. It was entertaining, as bank visits go. The other customer at the counter, a white man who looked to be in his 40s and wore some kind of paper name tag, noticed that two of the tellers were named Denise and Lisa. He proceeded to shout:

"Leeeeesie! And Neeeeesie! Neeeeesie! And Leeeeesie! Neesie and Leesie, Leesie and Neesie!"

Repeat about 20 more times and you'll get the idea.

Then just a few more steps to Zoe's Kitchen (which may get its own post here soon) for some lunch to go. And who was there, stocking beverages, but Leesie/Neesie man.

And then the final few blocks home.

If I'd needed, say, a new pair of tights and a bottle of Advil? I could've purchased those on this route too. If I'd had shoes that needed repairing, or wanted a latte instead of a workout? Also right on the way. Soon, I'll be able to stop in at Reed Books' new location--maybe unload some old magazines on him.

I would like to point out that I could never have accomplished all these things in a very short amount of time, on foot, in our old neighborhood in Chicago. (Sure, you could in lots of other neighbs, but not ours, not quite. Though we did have the godsend of the Rico on the corner, with, instead of a Leesie/Neesie man, the mute guy who hung around and made interesting sounds. And we had walking access to lots of restaurants, plus upscale nail salons, plus a bunch of boutiques we mostly couldn't afford to frequent.)

It was enough to get me all agitated, happily so. Birminghamians need to keep moving down here, parking their cars, walking the streets. Not just during ArtWalk and Sidewalk. And retailers, grocery stores, we beg of you: Come; come give us the opportunity to spend our money with you! There's vacant space all over this place, just waiting. I get so excited and frustrated all at once by the sight of it that I practically wet my pants.

Not in a few years. Now. Come on. The quasipedestrian life: Embrace it.