The Gym Problem

One of my goals this summer was to “get in good enough shape to fuck with impunity.” By that, I meant “get in good enough shape to be a glistening wall of muscle, so toned that no lady could resist.” Most people have, in their lives, gotten exercise: when they were kids they were a part of some after school activity like soccer or karate, when they were teenagers, they acted out through hoodlum-ish behaviour requiring physical strength, when they hit adulthood, they participated in guilt-induced bouts of jogging and weight lifting, and throughout all of this, rode their bikes. Not so, for me. Previous to this summer, my only exercise experience came from the odd walk, clumsy nerd basketball, and that one summer when I jumped rope.

I’m explaining all of this to make it clear that I started out well back of what most people would consider average. I didn’t have muscle hidden beneath fat waiting to break free, and I lacked a lot of the basic skills which people have generally acquired by my age that they use to work out: bike riding, skating, swimming, and even running.

I didn’t accomplish my goal this summer. I lifted weights almost every day, went for regular walks, and played one game of sweat-inducing nerd basketball every week, and yet the mammoth tower of flesh I imagined does not sit at this keyboard. Having said that, my level of fitness has improved, and I plan on continuing my regimen until such time that I am unable to cope with all of the sex being thrown my way.

So, now that I’ve explained all of that, what was the problem? Why didn’t I have this background? The answer is, surprisingly, not laziness, or even cheapness, but fear. Fear of being normal, in other words, fear of being a dick. When I was in Junior High, gym class was a lesson in what it meant to be within the normal parameters of strength: the normal person whips volleyballs at your face, explains to you that you are worthless, and follows it up with a wedgie in the change room.

You might think that such behaviour is typical only of the Junior High student, and once he or she grows out of that phase, the healthy person ceases to be a dick, but you’d be wrong, and I can prove it. You see, once annually, I like to justify my misanthropy by checking in on these people at the gym.

The last time I went was no different from all of the others. Women wearing tight pants and stretching (you’re hot and unobtainable, I know!). Men lumbering around, lifting the occasional weight or playing a bit of some sport (you’re in shape and could beat me up, I get it!). You gym people and your casual attitude, your confident and non-showy way of performing your exercises, you think you’re better than me! If we were fourteen again, you’d be letting me know it, too!

Because I’m constantly aware of the brobdingnagian hatred my gym onlookers have for me and their desperation to physically abuse me, I can never be truly comfortable in a gym. It’s just that when everyone around you is thinking “that guy sucks,” it’s hard to work out non-ironically, because the only way to defend against the constant threat of fist-wailing is to get in on the joke yourself. Tyler Durden called exercise masturbation. For normal people, it’s public masturbation without the embarrassment. It’s masturbation for the sake of comparing dick sizes, but finding you’re all tied at 10 feet and then circling up for congratulations.

My solution was simple; this summer I exercised in the protected space of my basement. That way, I could masturbate in private, the way it’s supposed to be.