"Can I get a spot, bro?" asks the man curling in the squat rack.
I'm assuming he recently survived a rather harrowing attack from an escaped gorilla, as that is the only logical explanation for his shirt to be missing so much fabric that I feel like a liar for calling it a shirt. No one needs to see the entirety of your back and both nipples, dude. Malnourished Thai children didn't masterfully craft your clever shirt (Jewbacca? Oh I get it, because it's a Wookie with a yarmulke and nerd things are funny and this country has gone to shit) just so you could turn it into a toga starter kit.
"BRO! GODDAMN SPOT, BRO!" Curling in the squat rack is akin to pooping in a water fountain; aside from missing the original function entirely it is utterly contemptible, vile, disgusting, and lacking in consideration for one's fellow man. Plus he was only curling 70 lbs like a little bitch boy.
"You will not hurt anyone ever again." I say as I grab him by his collar, kick him in the chest a la Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in Game of Death, and stand heroically. A vaguely eastern European woman, head scarfed with breadbasket in hand, comes up to me.
"Thank you save us. You are like hero."
"It was nothing, Olga. I'm just a man looking to lift heavy weights."
"May god protect forever you." She kisses my hand and departs.
Having vanquished Chad (He looked like a Chad. Is that a racist statement? I dunno, I'm kind of on the fence about that.) from the squat rack I begin my workout in earnest. Squats are squatted. Grunts are grunted. Sweats are sweated. After completing a particularly grueling set of squats I rest on the squat rack itself, a valiant knight basking in the glory of slaying dragons. A troop of small men with smaller necks approach. I first believe them to be peasants from Olga's rival village, most likely bringing peace offerings or shamanic blessings to curry my favor. Villagers give me shit, like, all the time. It's super cute.
"Excuse me, how much longer do you have?" asks the largest of the small men.
"Until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, until the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before."
"What?"
"Five minutes."
Ten minutes later I leave for the pull up station and once there, I see her. Short brown hair glides over her sweet face, sweat beads down her soft white skin, Vibram Five Fingers adorn her yuppie feet. A CrossFit Aphrodite, she performs a set of 15 perfect form pull ups with the ease and grace of something that is really good at doing a lot of pull ups. I know only a handful of unassailable facts, irrefutable truths in this world; Obama was born in Nigeria, 9/11 was an inside job, the Holocaust was exaggerated. And I know that this woman must be mine. Summoning decades of torrid sexual conquest and training I approach her. I've learned in these situations it is best to speak sincerely rather than rely on convoluted pick up lines.
"Miss?"
She removes her headphones.
"I want to be inside you."
She puts her headphones back on.
Knowing that I have successfully planted a seed of lust I do not pursue her further. I complete my set of pull ups without incidence. Had their been incidence, I would have wrote about it. You're just going to have to trust me here. I have only one more exercise left in my routine, and make my way to the opposite side of the gym. As I near my goal I see a young man performing dumbbell military press. The weight appears to be a bit much for him, however, as I see his elbows slowly buckle. In a few brief seconds he may very well lose his fight with gravity. I could tell that without immediate intervention he was about to drop the weight on his head.
"You're about to drop the weight on your head," I said as he dropped the weight on his head. Proud of myself for accurately providing commentary for an in-progress tragedy I step over the now bleeding man and head towards the bench area.
If the squat rack is the Chapel of the Ascension, the dumbbell rack is Mount Sinai, and the Smith machine is, of course, a K-Mart in South Dakota then it follows that the bench area is Mecca. This most holy of sites is the culmination of any true bro's weight lifting pilgrimage, bro. After briefly becoming enthralled with my own reflection (I often wonder why every gym insists on having so many mirrors; it lends a funhouse-for-people-with-5%-bodyfat-and-low-self-esteem vibe) I refocus and load 405 onto the bar. Such a weight should not to be taken lightly, as it is fairly heavy. I approach the weight heavily, resting my hands on the bar. Whispering sweet nothings into the ever receptive ears of each individual plate, I promise I will be firm but gentle.
"I will love you forever. Don't ever leave me," I caress the weight, "or you'll be sorry. I swear to god you try to leave and I will fucking end you." Having proclaimed my unconditional love for the weight I slide onto the bench, but manly. All my mental preparation, all my training, has lead me to this singular moment along the space-time continuum. Muscles tensed, breath heavy, blood boiling. As I move the bar from the rack to directly over my chest I let out a guttural cry, a declaration that I am no slave to gravity. A declaration that had the apple hit me in the head I would have chucked that shit right back. I hear nothing of my fellow gym patrons, as they no longer exist. My focus has given way to bloodlust, and I allow it to wash over me, consume me. The weight is now on my chest, 405 pounds of iron resting, waiting, needing to be freed of the surly bonds of earth. I lift, and am free.
I'm assuming he recently survived a rather harrowing attack from an escaped gorilla, as that is the only logical explanation for his shirt to be missing so much fabric that I feel like a liar for calling it a shirt. No one needs to see the entirety of your back and both nipples, dude. Malnourished Thai children didn't masterfully craft your clever shirt (Jewbacca? Oh I get it, because it's a Wookie with a yarmulke and nerd things are funny and this country has gone to shit) just so you could turn it into a toga starter kit.
"BRO! GODDAMN SPOT, BRO!" Curling in the squat rack is akin to pooping in a water fountain; aside from missing the original function entirely it is utterly contemptible, vile, disgusting, and lacking in consideration for one's fellow man. Plus he was only curling 70 lbs like a little bitch boy.
"You will not hurt anyone ever again." I say as I grab him by his collar, kick him in the chest a la Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in Game of Death, and stand heroically. A vaguely eastern European woman, head scarfed with breadbasket in hand, comes up to me.
"Thank you save us. You are like hero."
"It was nothing, Olga. I'm just a man looking to lift heavy weights."
"May god protect forever you." She kisses my hand and departs.
Having vanquished Chad (He looked like a Chad. Is that a racist statement? I dunno, I'm kind of on the fence about that.) from the squat rack I begin my workout in earnest. Squats are squatted. Grunts are grunted. Sweats are sweated. After completing a particularly grueling set of squats I rest on the squat rack itself, a valiant knight basking in the glory of slaying dragons. A troop of small men with smaller necks approach. I first believe them to be peasants from Olga's rival village, most likely bringing peace offerings or shamanic blessings to curry my favor. Villagers give me shit, like, all the time. It's super cute.
"Excuse me, how much longer do you have?" asks the largest of the small men.
"Until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, until the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before."
"What?"
"Five minutes."
Ten minutes later I leave for the pull up station and once there, I see her. Short brown hair glides over her sweet face, sweat beads down her soft white skin, Vibram Five Fingers adorn her yuppie feet. A CrossFit Aphrodite, she performs a set of 15 perfect form pull ups with the ease and grace of something that is really good at doing a lot of pull ups. I know only a handful of unassailable facts, irrefutable truths in this world; Obama was born in Nigeria, 9/11 was an inside job, the Holocaust was exaggerated. And I know that this woman must be mine. Summoning decades of torrid sexual conquest and training I approach her. I've learned in these situations it is best to speak sincerely rather than rely on convoluted pick up lines.
"Miss?"
She removes her headphones.
"I want to be inside you."
She puts her headphones back on.
Knowing that I have successfully planted a seed of lust I do not pursue her further. I complete my set of pull ups without incidence. Had their been incidence, I would have wrote about it. You're just going to have to trust me here. I have only one more exercise left in my routine, and make my way to the opposite side of the gym. As I near my goal I see a young man performing dumbbell military press. The weight appears to be a bit much for him, however, as I see his elbows slowly buckle. In a few brief seconds he may very well lose his fight with gravity. I could tell that without immediate intervention he was about to drop the weight on his head.
"You're about to drop the weight on your head," I said as he dropped the weight on his head. Proud of myself for accurately providing commentary for an in-progress tragedy I step over the now bleeding man and head towards the bench area.
If the squat rack is the Chapel of the Ascension, the dumbbell rack is Mount Sinai, and the Smith machine is, of course, a K-Mart in South Dakota then it follows that the bench area is Mecca. This most holy of sites is the culmination of any true bro's weight lifting pilgrimage, bro. After briefly becoming enthralled with my own reflection (I often wonder why every gym insists on having so many mirrors; it lends a funhouse-for-people-with-5%-bodyfat-and-low-self-esteem vibe) I refocus and load 405 onto the bar. Such a weight should not to be taken lightly, as it is fairly heavy. I approach the weight heavily, resting my hands on the bar. Whispering sweet nothings into the ever receptive ears of each individual plate, I promise I will be firm but gentle.
"I will love you forever. Don't ever leave me," I caress the weight, "or you'll be sorry. I swear to god you try to leave and I will fucking end you." Having proclaimed my unconditional love for the weight I slide onto the bench, but manly. All my mental preparation, all my training, has lead me to this singular moment along the space-time continuum. Muscles tensed, breath heavy, blood boiling. As I move the bar from the rack to directly over my chest I let out a guttural cry, a declaration that I am no slave to gravity. A declaration that had the apple hit me in the head I would have chucked that shit right back. I hear nothing of my fellow gym patrons, as they no longer exist. My focus has given way to bloodlust, and I allow it to wash over me, consume me. The weight is now on my chest, 405 pounds of iron resting, waiting, needing to be freed of the surly bonds of earth. I lift, and am free.
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