Alexa Babin

May 13, 2021

I love my car. It’s my safe place. Sue the Blue Subaru has carried me many a mile around the country. She’s from Austin, but we live in California currently. And let me just say—California really suits my girl Sue. She’s a windows down, sunroof open, cruise down the road kind of car. But she also loves adventures. Just like me. The thing about adventures is that you often get a little dirty in the process.

Because of the pandemic, gyms closed down for the better part of a year. Some shut down for good, I imagine. All of them are now rebuilding and reconfiguring. As the vaccine rolls out and comfort levels surrounding the coronavirus are starting to shift, gyms are making a comeback. I know some people hate the gym, but I love it. I like having a separate, dedicated place to sweat.

Perhaps the best part of my local gym is the fact that it offers classes. They teach a longtime favorite class of mine called Bodypump. It’s a real ride if you can get in the swing of it. It’s low weight, high repetition weightlifting set to music. I am somewhat obsessed. Not being able to do Bodypump for a year nearly killed me. That was my outlet in more ways than one. I couldn’t quite replicate it at home—I don’t have a barbell and I couldn’t gather with 10-20 other people to sweat out my problems. So I went without it for a year.

Now, the gym is open, Bodypump is back, and I am finding my old groove in a new way. Due to Covid restrictions, the class is held outside instead of the in the group workout room upstairs, which means you get a little dirtier than usual. By the end of the hour, my palms are black from the asphalt. My knees darkened from the pushups I can’t bear to do on my toes every time.

I finished class a couple days ago and looked at my dirty hands. It left me feeling like I had really accomplished something. Getting dirty means you put in work, right? I guess feeling sweaty is a similar sensation—you know you’ve exerted effort. Your sweat proves it. The filth and grime is a sign of something good that’s transpired.

As much as I adore my car, I don’t wash her as often as I should. That’s been especially true for this year so far. Between moving apartments, being out of town for days and weeks at a time, and driving up into the mountains on more than one occasion, Sue has gotten filthy. I’ve been known to take a shortcut when it comes to car washing and do a quick squeegee wash while I’m pumping gas. But that’s not a true bath; it’s just a wipe off.

Driving down the PCH from Topanga Canyon last weekend, I knew it was time. I had to go to the car wash. Sue’s condition demanded it.

When I come home from the gym, I usually want to eat right away. Or just collapse and chill out. I rarely feel the urge to jump straight in the shower, though that’s probably what I need most. I come home disgusting. If I’m putting in the effort to workout, I want to feel it. Smell it. Have evidence of my exertion and stand a little taller with the knowledge of it.

But that rarely happens. I’m the queen of walking through the door, grabbing food, and getting sucked into conversation, television, or anything besides showering. It’s ridiculous, and I recognize that. I sit down to eat supper, knowing that I’ll sit in my dirty clothes and dried sweat until late at night because it’s too much effort to shower first. Even though I feel much better once I’m clean. It’s the perpetual issue of being dirty post-workout.  

Sitting in line at the car wash, I wondered why it took me so long to get there. How did my car get this dirty? Was I really so busy I couldn’t do this two weeks ago?

No. I was not too busy. I was unknowingly looking at the task as more than it was.

Taking my car to get washed might take thirty minutes, tops. That’s if there’s a line. But I live close to a car wash, it’s not expensive, and, as previously stated, it’s not a majorly time consuming activity. The misstep comes when I try to work it perfectly into my schedule, fitting it nice and neat into a time slot that’s convenient. With this subconscious desire to “work it in” to my day, I find every possible reason why it will not work in to my day. And because it isn’t perceived as an urgent task, it’s among the first to get postponed.

Thus, my car gets nasty dirty when I’m not paying attention.

Not so different than my palms in the gym parking lot. Or my body caked in sweat and dust after a Bodypump class.

A little effort can go a long way, but that small step doesn’t always feel so easy. If I’ve got twelve things on my to-do list for the day, you better believe my car isn’t getting washed. When I come home exhausted from exercising, the last thing I want to do is put all those dirty clothes in the hamper, grab fresh ones, and get in the shower. The task at hand—the one that inevitably makes me feel good—appears too much too soon. And yet, it’s not. It’s just a subtle shift, a baby step.

Washing my car takes a single decision—I have the time, and I’m going. Washing my body is as simple as, “I’m wiped, but warm water will refresh me.”

It’s not some big show of force or a giant leap, but a few minutes, a tiny baby step to get to a better place. Hopefully I’ll become disciplined enough to see that better place, that clean state of being, as something worth the effort—even when it feels inconvenient.