A New Year, Another Cliche Resolution
It is officially the time of year when I realize that winter coats are to be purchased instead of built from scratch with cupcakes and Christmas dinners. It’s also the time of year that I have to face my horrible phobia that is the GYM.
It’s completely irrational to fear a place where you are actually allowed to look like crap. In fact, people seem to respect the sweaty there.
Nevertheless, when I enter the doors of that intrepid place I immediately feel I am being watched through some two way mirror with a panel of judges postulating over my inadequacies.
The sane part of me is aware that yes, no one cares that much about my workout regimen to avidly watch and criticize me. Yet the fear still lingers as my worst gym memories haunt me.
Like the college gym, the most terrifying arena of all. Sorority girls working off last night’s Smirnoff and meatheads terrorizing the free weight room is befitting of my own personal hell. I had just finished a jog on the treadmill and was contemplating my dismount. Deciding that I would play it cool I decided to turn the machine off and casually roll off the back. I was cruising along until my headphones, that were unbeknownst to me still plugged in went taut. I flew super-man style across the treadmill face-planting on the floor. In this case I believe the "judges" would have given a 9.9 for my dismount.
In an effort to avoid the main college gym, I took weight training and aerobics as a class. Our grade was partially determined by the outcome of our final measurements and at the end of the semester I arrived proudly before the gym attendants to let them pinch me with those devil-claw calipers.
This girl was not only gunning for fat when she pinched, she was trying to catch an organ too. After being sufficiently pulled and prodded I looked at my results only to find they were worse than when I started. I told her that her medieval torture tools were wrong, but the evil little beast merely rolled her eyes. After contemplating places to stick her calipers I took the paper and marched across campus to my teacher and demanded that he void my results. For fear of being eaten, he relented to my pleas.
Hatred of the gym is my Achilles heel which is fine except if I don’t find some sort of compromise eventually that Achilles heel is going to be attached to one fat ass leg. So resolution, or shall I say compromise of 2010 is to find a friend who will actually attend the gym with me to help me up after I fall off the machinery, and perhaps no more calipers. We’ll just use the jeans of Christmas past to track my progress. Wish me luck.
It’s completely irrational to fear a place where you are actually allowed to look like crap. In fact, people seem to respect the sweaty there.
Nevertheless, when I enter the doors of that intrepid place I immediately feel I am being watched through some two way mirror with a panel of judges postulating over my inadequacies.
The sane part of me is aware that yes, no one cares that much about my workout regimen to avidly watch and criticize me. Yet the fear still lingers as my worst gym memories haunt me.
Like the college gym, the most terrifying arena of all. Sorority girls working off last night’s Smirnoff and meatheads terrorizing the free weight room is befitting of my own personal hell. I had just finished a jog on the treadmill and was contemplating my dismount. Deciding that I would play it cool I decided to turn the machine off and casually roll off the back. I was cruising along until my headphones, that were unbeknownst to me still plugged in went taut. I flew super-man style across the treadmill face-planting on the floor. In this case I believe the "judges" would have given a 9.9 for my dismount.
In an effort to avoid the main college gym, I took weight training and aerobics as a class. Our grade was partially determined by the outcome of our final measurements and at the end of the semester I arrived proudly before the gym attendants to let them pinch me with those devil-claw calipers.
This girl was not only gunning for fat when she pinched, she was trying to catch an organ too. After being sufficiently pulled and prodded I looked at my results only to find they were worse than when I started. I told her that her medieval torture tools were wrong, but the evil little beast merely rolled her eyes. After contemplating places to stick her calipers I took the paper and marched across campus to my teacher and demanded that he void my results. For fear of being eaten, he relented to my pleas.
Hatred of the gym is my Achilles heel which is fine except if I don’t find some sort of compromise eventually that Achilles heel is going to be attached to one fat ass leg. So resolution, or shall I say compromise of 2010 is to find a friend who will actually attend the gym with me to help me up after I fall off the machinery, and perhaps no more calipers. We’ll just use the jeans of Christmas past to track my progress. Wish me luck.
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1 comments:
As someone who has been frequenting the gym recently, let me impart some wisdom. Keep your eyes to yourself and never go between 5-8 p.m. That's when the "good looking" and "in shape" people work out, the ones who "know what they are doing". If there's no one there to see you fall, do you make a noise?
p.s. You might need to look up the definition of intrepid.
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