I quickly scribbled a half-assed signature onto the sign-in sheet, my own deal with the devil. I walked up to the revolving metal contraption, trying to fool you as if you are entering an amusement park, but don’t be fooled, at this park you are the amusement.
I walked forward and up the stairs to my doom, my living hell, my gym trainer. I saw pain on all the faces, dripping sweat, tears of the body. My body joined into the tragedy as soon as I started my warm up laps, but apparently my body was very sad, as it is crying much more than everyone else’s. After a death defying .2-mile run I was ready for the main attraction, colloquially known as “the workout.” I felt a cumbersome yet routine slap on the ass known as the “motivational thump.”
“Are you ready to work hard!” screamed Billy, my four foot eight inch trainer who is built like a snake, 99% muscle.
“Yes,” I responded in an intentionally melancholy tone to suddenly demonstrate my disdain and slight hatred for Billy’s profession.
“Then let’s go,” replied Billy to assure me that I was not getting out of this.
We walked over to the barbell section where I was demanded to pick up two ten pound barbells and do squats as Billy assisted me in a very uncomfortable and close position to my buttocks. After three rounds of ten very awkward squats we moved onto the next exercise, burpies.
I fell on my hands and feet, the commencement of the burpie, and did a rather pathetic pushup. I then jumped to my feet to finish the crazy yet widely worshiped burpie ritual, so foreign to my kind, the nonworkioutes. I “finish” three rounds of seven burpies, loosing the little form I had during the second round. Apparently it was not OK to man cry in the gym as I was attracting the attention of all the workioutes men and women. Ten minutes and three water bottles later Billy and I continued our fun. I was time to run one twenty-sixth of a marathon, known to the commoner as “the mile.” I began hyperventilating out of grave fear for the beast ahead. This quick but quiet demonstration of weakness was put to a halt as the girl I refer to as “hot girl #7” walked by, but resumed with more force than ever as soon as “hot girl #7” was out of sight. I took three deep breathes and then my first step. As I was floating across the gym tracks it seemed as if my running was awing everyone as they would stop what they were doing, sometimes just dropping weights on the floor to watch my majestic beauty.
Then I committed the ultimate sin, the unforgettable act, I tripped over my shoelace.
“Are you ok!” screamed Billy in the tone he has.
“Yes,” I reply in a gentle moan, taking every luscious second on the ground as a break from my torture.
“Then get up!” shouts Billy.
Finally reaching my feet, a great task in itself, I continued on my trek. Billy stopped me about four minutes later, possibly because I was doing so well, but likely because the man tears were flowing like Niagara Falls. The grueling part of the workout was over. It had to be didn’t it? There were only five minutes left in our thirty-minute session.
“It’s time to stretch,” says Billy.
During our stretch we did the pretzel and the watermelon, the downward facing dog and the chaqanasanasana or something of that sort. I then head to the locker-room after “thanking” Billy for my “great” workout.
I reached the locker-room, mentally on my hands and knees begging for no more walking. I opened the door to the men’s section of the locker-room, my nose instantly overtaken by an aroma of blood, sweat, tears, and eucalyptus. Covering my eyes to the old naked men with pruny skin I slowly shuffled to my locker, number 122. I unlocked my locker and quickly jumped behind my towel, trying to shield other’s eyes from my defined and blinding abs. I continued on to the shower room where I took off my towel and pranced into my soothing shower. After soaping and cleaning all my nooks and crannies I exited the shower, towel in hand.
I walked bravely up to the scale with pride and anticipation only comparable to King Arthur after pulling the sword out of the stone. I reached my humble scale and gently caressed her, begging for mercy before I stepped up. To my dismay the scale was harsh, reading a cold 315 pounds. I cried tears of pain and sorrow and apparently to my delight the water weight was enough to bring the scale down to 314 pounds. I was so happy that I could jump off the scale into a split, but I simply decided to step off. Walking away I felt as light as a feather or at least a feather that weighed 314 pounds. After completing my workout I walk out of the gym and to my Pontiac Solstice.