 I'm not going to the gym again.
There. I've said it. That feels good. Gone are the days when I sat
around on my fat ass lying to myself and promising to go tomorrow.
The problem is that I'm not really a "gym guy." You've seen them.
They're at the gym every day, working on their pecs and their delts and
their pelts (c'mon some of those guys are pretty hairy). They really
seem to care about working out. They're big guys who wear tiny spandex
outfits that show way more skin than anyone would ever want to see.
They sometimes work out in pairs. This usually involves one guy lifting
weights and the other guy screaming at him. They say things like, "You
gotta want it, man! Give me one more! Do it! Do it!" The whole thing
seems a bit homoerotic.
Comedy is a profession that tends to be populated with people with
addictive personalities. I like to drink. I've met guys that like to
have sex with girls in the audience (after the show, I mean. Not
during, because that would just be uncomfortable to watch). Some like
to gamble, lots of them smoke pot, but it's usually some sort of
addiction that a given comedian will have a predilection for.
I was in Wichita, Kansas with a comedian named David. He and I had
never met, but we hit it off and I was looking forward to a great week.
As we got to know each other, I began to wonder what might be his
particular addiction. He was a huge man. He didn't drink, didn't smoke
and had never taken drugs. He was engaged to a girl and was completely
faithful to her. But there had to be something, right? He's a comedian,
for God's sake.
Then it happened. After the first show was over, we were hanging out
and he was watching me drink in amazement. Then he said, "Hey, you want
to go work out tomorrow?"
That was it. That was his thing. David looked forward to going to
the gym and working out like I looked forward to going to a bar and
drinking until I accidentally say something about the bartender's
mother and get cut off.
He was a huge dude. You could tell that he loved to work out.
Turns out he was a former personal trainer. I figured, why not?
We went to the gym together and he asked me what I wanted to work
on. I told him that my wife feels that I need to listen more. He said
that he was talking about upper or lower body.
We went to the free weights and he loaded up the bar on the bench
press. It was way too much weight and I knew it, but I didn't want to
say anything and look like a pussy, so I laid on the bench and went to
work.
To my credit, I actually got the bar off the holders. Then?
Nothing. I just laid there using all the strength I had not to let this
thing fall down and crush my chest.
"Anytime you're ready, just start pumping," he said. I had only
heard this sentence spoken to me at a gas station, but I knew what he
wanted. There was, however, nothing I could do. I just laid there
staring at him.
"Okay. Here, I'll spot you," he said and started helping me push
this weight bar up and let it back down. When I say "helping," I mean
that he was basically curling this weight bar, while I held on with my
hands and pretended I was doing something to move it up and down.
Then the screaming started.
"Come on! You can do this! I know you can! You've got it in you! Move this sonofabitch!"
I felt sorry for him because I knew better. But it seemed important to him, so I started screaming too.
"You're right! I can do this! No pain no gain! Etcetera!"
I think the fact that I actually screamed the word "etcetera"
might have given me away. He placed the bar back on the cradle and
looked at me with a really dubious look.
Then it was his turn. He went and got, no shit, every weight in the gym
and put them on the bar. There was literally no room left on the bar
for another weight. Then he starts pumping the bar up and down as I
stand there watching with amazement.
That's when it occurred to me... I'm his spotter. If he gets into
trouble, I have to rescue him. That's when he got in trouble. He had
lifted this massive amount of weight as many times as he was able and
he couldn't get it back up to the cradle. We looked at each other and
without saying anything, we both knew he was fucked.
I wasn't going to be able to lift the thing off of him and I panicked.
I didn't know what else to do, so I started screaming at him.
"C'mon, you pussy! My grandmother could get that thing back in its
place! If she was on a steroid regimen, you know. Cuz, she couldn't
possibly now, I mean, that's a shit load of weight!"
That was the last time I've been to a gym and I think the gym people
and myself will be a lot happier if we keep it that way. I'll be soft
around the middle and they'll scream at each other and the circle of
life will continue.
Me? I'll stick with bars. They're like gyms for alcoholics. We see who
can take the most punishment to our bodies, we sweat and then we start
screaming at each other. It's pretty much the same thing without the
monthly fees.
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Quirkee Voices 
(0 vote)
