I feel pretty svelte these days. I'm feeling the burn. Getting in shape. Releasing my inner Adonis. After a semester of slow muscle atrophy, I figured I owed it to myself to get back into shape for the New Year. The reasons were of course almost entirely unrelated to health. In the long run which matters more: Cardiovascular health or having a six pack that you can see through a pea coat? Anyway, getting into shape was a very exciting prospect, especially considering that I visited the gym a whopping three times during first semester (twice to work out and once to grab a snack at the Poolside Cafe).
And so, as I jogged to the AFC for the first time since September, I wondered to myself what else I could change about my life. Why stop at getting in shape?
I could study harder too.
And eat healthier.
And go to Church on Sunday.
And floss.
It's a week later and my back hurts, I have a Dostoevsky novel to read by Wednesday, I just ate four slices of Domino's Pizza in front of the NFC Championship game, I've used the Lord's name in vain 3,469 times (I forgot about Mass), and I don't even own floss.
Things are going pretty well.
I have gone to the gym though, and I've gotten into the habit of starting my workouts with some free weights, then moving onto the treadmill. I usually walk over to the rack to find that, of course, a gargantuan guy named Stone is using the 25-pound dumbbells to do index finger curls.
"Excuse me, are you about done with those?" I ask him in a voice about four octaves lower than my usual conversational tone. You can smell the testosterone in the air.
"Sure thing, little guy," he answers, tossing me the weights and casually adding, "You know, I could probably bench press about four of you."
"Thank you, sir," I respond, trying to disguise my terror with a look that I hope he interprets as veneration. He shows me some of his favorite muscles and then I slowly waddle over to a bench to do concentration curls, convinced that the dumbbells must be incorrectly labeled. They must be 25 kilograms.
Stupid metric system.
My hatred for the French and their systems of measures powers me through my first set, the mere sight of guys carrying 125-pound weights in one arm nearly giving me a hernia as I turn a festive shade of indigo on my 15th rep. The dumbbell falls to the floor with an impotent thud that serves as yet another reminder of my inadequacy as a male. How will I ever get a job or raise a family if I can't even lift a 25 pound weight over my head 25 times? Just then the floor begins to shake beneath my feet. Stone has just dropped a seven-ton weight that he had been lifting in the corner.
I've noticed that the guys who lift the most weight make the most noise. "PLKFWHEPFIARGGGGGH" they yell as they lift massive barbells over their bodies. It sounds as though they are going through childbirth, their spotters urging in the language of Lamaze classes, "Come on, just push a little harder, you're almost there, Hans. One more. I can see the head!"
Mine is more the silent inner struggle, "God
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