I’ve grudgingly agreed to go with Allison to the local Gold’s gym today. She recently became a member, and I have free access through my university. Which is all good and fine, except exercise and I don’t get along very well. I have tried on various occasions over the past year or two to begin some sort of regimen, be it lifting weights on the set in our basement or just doing pushups in my room. As it is with most lazy, easily-distracted people, it never seems to last for long. My previous plan, that of pushups every night before bed, actually continued long enough for me to notice results: not instantly bulging musculature, but a slight hardening of the arms, shoulders and chest. You have to imagine a 6’6″ man, 150lbs, with a frame like a paperclip, whose most strenuous activity during the day is getting out of bed. It’s a sad, pitiful existence, but one that has suited me well enough so far, at least insofar as getting out of bed, driving to work, and sitting most of the day.
I’m not so dumb that I remain unaware of the health risks posed by my extremely self-destructive lethargy. I know I need a better diet (one that involves produce, for instance, and not things out of boxes and cans), and I need to gain some muscle, and give my heart something to do. It might increase my circulation so I don’t brown out when I stand up too quickly. I know this, see, but I’m a poor inertiatic struggling against gravity.
Mostly, I picture myself at Gold’s, in whatever dorky shorts I find, a flailing, cartoonish figure short of breath just from climbing onto the equipment (You may think this is an exaggeration. You would be wrong, at least if it has more than a couple of stairs). I and the other flabby or atrophied creatures writhing around in exercise-related agony will be ever-conscious of the slim, toned demigods around us, who have been coming here since time immemorial. It will stink of sweat and body odor, and our faces will alternate between contortions of disgust and contortions of pain, and we will think to ourselves, “We will work hard, we will get fit, and then we will stop coming here or regain our fondness for Bearclaws, and it will all go to pot.”
And then I will hopefully get my car back from the shop, because it also apparently has problems staying in shape.