I frequent a gym, it used to be to supplement my Kung Fu exercises so I could keep eating all the junk that I’m eating. Now that I have more time I also do it to get into better shape since I can’t opt for more Kung Fu lessons. I don’t particularly enjoy going to the gym for a couple of reasons. One of which is because a lot of emphasis is put on muscle building and muscle toning. While I don’t mind the latter much, it’s incredibly boring. I do like cardio work, especially aerobics-ee things.
But the real reason I don’t like to go is because I don’t fit in with the crowd very well. Although contemporary sociologists would have a field day studying the mating rituals of the patrons of a gym, and contemporary linguists would have a field day try to figure out the language of the new breed of idiot that hangs around the gym, but it’s the socialite mentality that ruins it all for me.
Do you remember when Rocky Balboa got creamed by Clubber Lang [My favourite; Mr. T!] because he was getting too decadent in his work outs? Well, if you don’t…he did get his ass creamed, and he needed to be instructed by Apollo Creed in a gritty, back-to-basic environment where there were no photo-ops, no freshly squeezed lemon juice and where there was only sweat, pain and adrenaline.
Well, my gym is none of the “sweet, pain and adrenaline.” It’s more like a social club, where bored house wives come to do about 25 minutes on the StairMaster while idly looking at their favourite soap opera being played on one of the many televisions above, or where muscular guys walk around in brightly coloured, tight fitting shirts, making sure that all the female attention is firmly focussed on them.
But that’s not the worst of it…oh no…
…the worst of it is when I get to a machine that I want to abuse to loose my saddle-bags, and some fucknut has put his towel on it, claiming it as his own. “Where is said fucknut,” you’re wondering? I am wondering the same thing. I look around and see a guy, mid-fourties, pretending to be tired and in desperate need of a sip of whatever it is in his Adidas canister. He’s strolling along only to return to the machine that I wanted to use about 6 minutes later – a time in which I would’ve done my 3 sets of 15 and moved on to the next contraption – to do another set of 10.
I think I am going to have to stop writing before I kill someone. Thank you all for listening.