Smells like a Gym

We don't have a "real" Chik-fil-A in Greeneville, Tennessee.

That may seem like a strange way to start a post about gymnasiums and their smells, but stay with me.

As I was saying, we don't have a "real" Chik-fil-A in Greeneville. We've been promised one, but so far, the only one we have is a walk-in restaurant on the campus of Tusculum University -- the oldest college in Tennessee located in, well, Tusculum, which is a tiny town nestled in the middle of Greeneville. 

Okay. Now to the gym part.

This Chik-Fil-A is inside a building that hosts the student gymnasium. So if you go to use the bathroom while eating your chicken, you basically walk into the lobby of the gym. 

I don't spend time in gyms at all anymore. My kids are into ballet and piano, and we do tennis and karate too. All things that aren't ever inside a gymnasium. 

But from 1977-2005, I lived in a gymnasium.

Not really of course, but I would not be exaggerating to say that I had my foot in a gymnasium nearly every single day of the first twenty-seven years of my life. 

First I was the daughter of a coach/athletic director. I was constantly in the gym with my dad. I actually once got locked inside a locker while playing while my dad taught one of his teams. If I wasn't shagging balls, I was keeping the clock or a book or taking tickets at the door. Or maybe eating dinner in a classroom at halftime so we could be together as a family.

Then I started playing basketball and volleyball. I played one of those nearly every single day of my life. Between AAU and travel ball and my school teams, it was non-stop. Back then, kids didn't play travel ball like they do today. It was rare. But I did it. Year round.

After that I went to college and played basketball. I don't even think I need to explain how much time that required of me to be in a gymnasium. In fact, that picture at the top of this post is of Diddle Arena -- the arena I spent my four college years playing in.

And then I coached for seven years. First in Kentucky. Then in Minnesota.

So the gym.

While it's now been over a decade since my life revolved around a gymnasium, every time I walk into that gymnasium lobby when we are at Chik-fil-A, I find myself ... nostalgic.

And I realize ...

There is a smell to a gymnasium. And I don't mean a bad smell necessarily. It's just a smell that is always present. I liken it to a mixture of sweat and rubber balls and tennis shoes and practice jerseys. I can't put it into words, but my nose knows it when I smell it.

There is a color to the lights. Doesn't matter the gym. While the lights may change, the base is still the same. It's a yellowing that I would know anywhere.

There are certain sounds in a gym. Like tennis shoes on the floor. To this day, that sound brings me ... joy. It is memorable to me. I honestly think if they had a noise-maker with tennis shoes hitting the floor, I could fall asleep to it.

There are buzzers. And whistles. And commands being barked. And fans cheering. John said that this is why noise doesn't bother me as a mom. Don't give me disorganization or talking back. But one kid can be playing piano, one yelling, one singing, and one reciting a school assignment, and I won't be phased in the slightest. 

It's because noise is very relative.

And it feels like ... home. 

It's funny to say that because my life now is so far removed from the gymnasium. Most of my college teammates still occupy a spot in a gymnasium regularly. Many are coaches. Most have children following in their footsteps. 

I don't. 

I am pretty sure that none of my children will ever spend significant time in a gymnasium. And I recognize that their own "familiar" places will be different.

It will be the farm.

Or the ballet studio.

Or piano keys.

Or the karate studio.

And I'm okay with that ... of course.

But for me, I believe that on my death bed, if you wheeled me into a gymnasium, it would be a comfortable place for me to be. 

It would feel familiar. 

Like home. 

It would smell like a gym.