The Gym, or How I stopped worrying and learned to love Lean Cuisine(s)

I sit here, on this routinely-mundane Monday night, inept at shaking the guilt and lethargical-womp-womp-ness clouding my thoughts. Because yet another evening is passing without me taking my $100-dollar-a-month-membership-fee-paying ass to the gym. The push-up bars and 20-pound dumbbells resting on my bedroom floor keep me my sanity and self-image in check, banging out at least 75 push-ups and 100 arm curls a night. Call it the lazy-man's battle tactic, but my miniscule makeshift home gym is a lifesaver.


[now here's a book I should crack open in the near future...]

No matter how many push-ups I do while watching Family Guy, though, or bicep and tricep exercises I knock through while channel-surfing, it's virtually impossible to replace the instantly-accomplished, productive psyche that results from actually physically going to the gym. And why is this, now? Fucking angers me, why I can't feel the same sense of triumph working out here in my apartment that I do when I walk across town to the overpriced gymnasium. The gym is, undoubtedly, one of the most awkward, self-conscious, get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here settings around. At least for me. I find myself, whenever there, checking the clock to make sure I've been within its mirror-clad walls for at least 45 minutes, anything less than said duration rendering my trip pointless. Misused.

I hate it. When all's said and pumped, the shit I do here in my apartment isn't that far off from what I do there. Only difference being, there's no cardio machines here. Sure, I from-time-to-time attempt to run-in-place in my living room, but the floor's hard as fuck and my feet end up stinging as if I were tapdancing on a bed of syringes. So why can't I mirror the gym-going experience anywhere else but there?


[all that stands between I and home-workout nirvana....a bigger apartment would be clutch]

At least here, there's no eyes peering at me, or personal trainers examining how properly I'm using their precious machinery, or that one short blabbermouth-asshole-dude who feels the need to broadcast his own version of Sportscenter to any male in a 10-foot radius when not issuing D+-grade game to fit chicks who clearly want to jam a free-weight up his ass (pause). I can do what I want to do here, skip long lines for the room-temp-and-metallic-tasting water fountain, and not feel embarrassed about watching VH1 reality shows...why is it that every time I do cardio, the only machine available is somewhere in the front row, in 20/20-plain view of everybody else jogging and elliptical-ing to see just what I'm idiot-boxing. I like sports, yes, but it just so happens that every time I'm watching TV at the gym, there's no game on that I'd ever even watch. Forcing me to endure a fucking hockey game, in order to not look like a tool.

The gym....killing people's self-esteem while building up muscle mass and trimming fat since, whenever the fuck the first gymnasium was opened.

"Trimming the fat" is another dilemma, workout-related. You know that old wives' tale about "doing cardio can rip you up and give you six-pack abs, guaranteed"? Whoever initially uttered those words, or whatever variation my paraphrasing derives from, must've ate nothing but carrot-sticks and hummus, and drank water, with an occasional Diet Soda Pop with lemon slice acessory. And if that were my diet regime, I'd surely snap within three days, bumrush the Johnny Rockets here in Hoboken, take the cook at butter-knife-point, and demand a triple cheeseburger and cheesy fries for free, or else said cook's face will meet piping-hot-grill. Or, do nothing of the deviant sort, and opt for ordering $20 worth of Chinese, and not the "steamed healthy menu" shit I typically order. My father used to always complain at how my "steamed chicken and mixed vegetables" smelled like ass, but I've stayed strong in my wise-dining strategy.

Six-pack-abs are more elusive than Dr. Dre's Detox, and I'm not about to stop satiating my Haribo or CVS gummy bear fix anytime soon.


[even better than that book above....though, you'd never catch me dead wearing this]

Guess I'll stick to 75 push-ups and 100 arm curls a night, with time spent in the gym handicapped to whenever motivation settles in, and Family Guy is nowhere to be found, remote control wise. And daydream about my gym magically relocating to across the street from my apartment, cutting out all pesky, unnecessary footwork.

That's the world I want to live in.