After Aiden came into the world (my now 3 year old), I found all that my activities beyond watching him and earning a living fell by the wayside. TV, reading, playing drums (poorly), staring off in space and today’s topic, exercising, ended. So after a couple years of that inactivity I had become a big doughy mess. All my clothes bought at my lean and mean days now just hung unworn in the closet. My go-to fashion were Elvis stretchy sweats. I added a ‘do not resuscitate’ addendum in my will if any medical procedure involved taking off my shirt.
So last winter I waddled over to Planet Fitness. After I drop Aiden off at school (day care) at 10am, I zip over and put in an hour, 5 days a week (mostly) just working my way through all the equipment. I’ve heard that for best body sculpting results, you should also curtail my three favorite food groups, wine, cheese and bread, but that’s WAY too much effort.
Planet Fitness is for anyone, be you an average shlep, or even a sexy internationally famous artist. It sometimes resembles the waiting benches of a Greyhound bus stop full of sleepy ticket holders or as if all the chairs at Starbucks were full and the equipment seats are set up for business. This is not the place for models in spandex jumping around in unison checking their heart rate. This is folks sweating through business suits, completely covered in a Hijab or actually getting around in wheelchairs. Highlights include one woman who is as tall as she is wide whose clothing all ends in beaded tassels dancing to a funk filled song in her head from equipment to equipment, yet never actually using them. Just lands, gyrates, and flutters like a butterfly to the next one.
Another gentlemen has a jar of urine (it could be a beverage), notebook and his lunch. Like a praying Mantis he positions himself on top of equipment in ways you never imagined, then flays about as if an alien mating with what he believes are our species. After climaxing (or simply finished) rolls over exhausted to write copious notes.
There’s even some guy who carries on as if he’s giving birth to a 30lb turkey every-time he lifts a weight.
Oh, that’s me.
The non-moving ones are possibly resting between reps, or sleeping, or dead (I’ll let the staff figure it out).
And God Bless all of them! At least they made the effort to get there.
After an hour I feel so pumped up that I’m sure I have Popeye arms, but I avoid looking in the mirror to see the reality of Olive Oyl muscles.
This hasn’t resulted in a Charles Atlas physique, it’s more of a ’think how much worse it could be'. I never really want to drag my ass there, but it’s worth the effort to be happy the rest of the day.
If it goes well, maybe next December I’ll post another nude selfie by the Christmas tree.
Keep your finger’s crossed!