I Want To Pump Me Up

I go to the gym.
    That is to say, I make every effort to go to the gym.
        To be clear, I make my best effort to go to the gym.
            Just so there's no confusion, I sometimes go to the gym,
                but most of the time, I don't.

In my sophomore year of college I needed some type of activity to fill the enormous, gaping, Earth-destroying asteroid-sized hole in my schedule. The problem was that I was taking undergraduate and graduate courses at the same time; the latter did not start until the evening and the former promptly ended just past lunch. While I knew about the existence of a gym on our poor excuse for a "campus," I was never had never felt a desire to be within the confines of its man-sweat soaked walls, breathing in its man-sweat-vapored air.

Prologue.

I was not single at the time and—and I assure you, most guys in steady relationships do—thought that any attempt to improve my outward appearance was a complete waste of my valuable time; time that could have otherwise been spent watching pirated movies on my laptop in the library—and I assure you, many hours were spent doing just that. I was a skinny pole-of-a-human-being and did not care. Could you have blamed me? Why sweat at the gym when you can get the milk for free?

Nevertheless I had time to kill and was running out of movies to watch. With a faded-pink-faced Master combination lock and a change of shorts and shirt in tote, I took the two flights of stairs down to the basement of Rogers Hall and thus began my foray into the process of forging and sculpting muscle tissue. It was slow-going at first, but after a few weeks I started to like the "pain" although I had yet to see any "gain." Like a child who just did his first push-ups, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, flexing my puny biceps in desperate search for any hints of a muscle bulge rising up just under the skin's surface.

Surprisingly, I kept at it and actually saw results. This fueled my vanity and helped me fight the constant, internal battle against complacency and sloth. In the off moths I was able to maintain my new-found regimen by using a Bally Total Fitness membership that I had gotten with my family at the Jew-ripe age of 13 and then had promptly abandoned at the age of 13-and-a-half. Going back to that gym I felt like General MacArthur reclaiming Manila, except instead of overjoyed, newly-liberated aborigines, I was surrounded by juiced-up, spray-tanned, Axe-bathed walking stereotypes. I felt sound as a pound.

Near the tail-end of my illustrious college career I had picked up a workout buddy in form of my BFF Eric after convincing him to sign up for a Bally's membership. I quickly brought him up to speed and in no time we were pumping out the same weight and reps. We helped push each other in those difficult times when we felt like we were stuck and not improving ("plateaued"). I looked forward to our time at the gym, because that was our time to catch up on the television that we've watched or chances with females that we've ruined.

As a side-note, he has never thanked me for transforming his scrawny physique into its current form. I will be expecting a gift of some sort from his future wife of greater or equal value to a year's-worth of personal training sessions.

Thanks to Eric and our silent, never-spoken-of competition to see who will become bigger and stronger, I was able to keep a, for the most part, steady gym schedule: a diligent three days per week. Not the most intensive of workout schedules, but still pretty good by 1-out-of-every-3-American-kids-is-overweight-or-obese standards.

The schedule started to break down once I moved in with my girlfriend. Having someone tell you they love you just the way you are can really take its toll. Losing my gym buddy in the process—through distance, not death—did not help matters. I keep looking for and finding excuses. The irony is that I know how much harder it is to start back up once one has been out for too long. I dread that first day back after a too-long a hiatus. I've been there many times before: muscles too reluctant to stretch, give up too easily, recover slowly.

I hope that it is the winter and now spring months that are making me lethargic. Once the summer comes and I drop the five-or-so hibernation pounds I've put on I will be back to my old routine. However, I know I will not be pushing myself with the same intensity as before. I will likely settle into a less-strenuous maintenance routine, which is probably healthier anyway as I will be reducing the amount of stress I put on my body.

The above-mentioned intentions are written here as a statement for the record and for no one else's benefit but my own.

I GO TO THE GYM!