Posts Tagged ‘gyms’

Yes, ladies and germs, in order to check the ill-effects of stress levels at critical, I have made it a priority to get my happy ass back in the gym.  You know, exercise fixes everything and all (and believe you me, it does).  Not to mention, finding that elusive half hour to an hour a few times a week has done wonders for my back– not just a non-destructive vent for stress.

Thanks to my genetics, I’m already toning back up from the damage of a sedentary career choice.  Luckily that damage was held to a minimum by a novel concept called “self control.”  That’s another rant entirely– but back to the mission to get my old body back (gimped ass wrist still hampering me and all) while preventing the urge to channel Wayne Brady in all of his glory.

The parts are still lurking... but....

It’s still there, waiting to be rediscovered… Ok– pay no attention to the situational sarcasm… the smirk… AND the sarcasm playing off the narcissism…
I just want *this* back in all its glory, I don’t have far to go, but Jill 2.0 is playing as much Hell on those plans as my work schedule.

Annnnnnnnnyway, when you’re all done mocking my choice of visual aid (or done wiping up the drool, your choice), let’s get back to the gym.  The gym is, as the title betrays, the very heart of this issue.  I work out at Nautilus, and as you can tell by the link– it’s not inexpensive.  In fact, if it weren’t for a smoking deal that I got on my membership, I couldn’t have afforded it nor would have considered it.

Previously, I’d work out with… we’ll call ’em D-Block and The Reverend.  It was a cheap gym, one of those 24 hour establishments, one that allowed us to sign in guests at a whim without surcharge.  There were no surprises with the old set up, before Jill befell her original injury.  Having a workout regimen and a running crew made it infinitely easier to get a hardcore routine, blah bla’ blah blah blah.

Now, I’m paying nearly twice as much for this gym (which does have far superior facilities) for diminished hours– and I can’t even sign in a damn lifting buddy.  Even this I can hack, and accept it as just an “adjustment.”  However, there’s one adjustment that just seems a touch too far– even a year after having had the membership.

Goddamn old man balls.

I know we’re all rocking various variants on the same equipment here (albeit with differing mileage)… but for the love of Alcohol– cover your shame!

Guys, I know we all have dicks.  We all have balls.  Some of us feel proud of their equipment from achievements past or present.  I get that.  It’s part and parcel to being a dude.  However, what the Hell gives with old men and locker room nudity?  I’m not a prude, in fact– I’m pretty far from it.  That doesn’t mean that every time I go to the gym, I appreciate receiving a complimentary steaming eyeful of pre-McCarthy-era cock’n’balls out for a stroll.

What is it with old guys holding court in the buff?  Is that one of those old-timey rituals of male bonding before bromances became popular?  I’m not going to apologize here– if your equipment is merely for show until you go full-on Cialis Cowboy– why the Hell are you wandering around with it (as well as the other extraneous gravitationally-distorted bits) flapping in the breeze like the rest of us don’t mind?  I’m so glad you want to advertise the inevitability of geriatric wasting…  however your *ahem* little public service announcement can get crammed back up your wrinkled asses at your next colonoscopy appointment thank you very much.

Newsflash: my corneas tried to kill me last night, but the only things that stopped them were my retinas– because they were pissed that the corneas let those wretched images through, and my retinas weren’t about to let those traitorous bastards win.

Old man balls, ladies and gentlemen– the very bane of “better” gyms everywhere.
Yes, I dedicated an entire entry to old man balls.

Ladies, does your locker room etiquette have similar nauseating disparities– or is it just Thunderdome in there?

Unplug.

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I know last time I sat down at my keyboard, I was a bit of a raging bastard.  Yes, I still stand by my words, and I still feel justified in every last one of them– it’s still posted, isn’t it?  Anyway, today’s been a perfect bookend to the deicidal  fury of Friday, and the subsequent smoldering up until yesterday’s tirade.

First off, I got an important phone call (neither from work, nor from the previously alluded-to company) and it freaking made my morning.  That was great, then I found out that the duster I’d bought for Halloween was at the UPS Hub.  Between these two levels of awesome, was a priceless bit of WTF.

Yes, I am pretty fluent in Text– just like my other written/spoken sub-languages: Sarcasm, Typo, Drunk, Condescending, Legal, Medical, and Psychotic.  Get used to it, but I digress.

Since I’ve been working on dropping the couch-poundage that I packed on during the whole Jill-in-cast period, it only makes sense that I work out as well as diet.  I don’t just work out, I kick my own ass.  Since Jill’s still recovering, I’m only working lower body (giggity), cardio, and core– the last being the only one I habitually used to work.  From the get-go, I know this is going feel pretty damn awkward– like the first time I started hitting the gym like a narcissistic perfectionist three years ago.

Holy crap, they DO have a sign for that!

It's not worth it if you didn't work for it.

Did I remember to add in that this is, like, the second time I’ve gone to this gym– ever– to use the membership that I signed up for before I had surgery?  If you’ve ever joined a gym, you know the whole new-gym feeling that I’m trying to work out.  On top of that, I’ve gotta watch what I do so as not to aggravate the wrist– but still hammering away at the flubber using exercises that I don’t normally do.

When feeling out the new gym, you also get to see the scenery.  Compared to my old gym (which shall remain nameless because I’m not going to get hit with a libel/slander suit from those freaks), Nautilus is very different– and pretty bad ass on the level of equipment.  There’s a bunch of old dudes, a few really fit dudes, and a similar juxtaposition for the ladies.  Am I there for the scenery?  No, but I do have eyes.  Seriously.  Anyone who tries to claim otherwise is a hypocrite, and should be hit in the mouth with a tree branch.  Before anyone tries to throw the “pig” card out, one– you’re a hypocrite (see above) and two– my girlfriend and I have already had conversations about this and we had identical thoughts on the subject.

Anyway.

Peek a boo?

Yeah, people think they can surreptitiously stare. Most are really bad at it. The best part is, they're clueless.

I’d kicked my ass for the better part of an hour, throwing a small amount of core in between the bike and the elliptical.  First, I caught a few girls looking.  Cheers, apparently I hid my weight gain well.  In the middle of my bemusement, a guy ran past the elliptical on the track.

This is the point where I closed my eyes and focused on the DevilDriver blaring in my headphones– just to not crack up.  Flattery is sometimes funny, and it’s not like I’m a freaking phobe.  The funny part of this is, the size of the indoor track requires something like 16 laps to run a mile.  He.  Kept.  Passing.  By.  And.  Never.  Got.  Better.  At.  Staring.

Meanwhile, I’m sweating like a Steeler Fan in the Dog Pound– so I’m starting to wonder if I’m actually looking apocalyptic, and I’m having the trainwreck effect on this particular Takei (off topic: having a gay man as one of my closest friends for like six years has given me impeccable gaydar.  This one was a bottom.  Yeah, that precise.  Anyway.).  I figure that maybe a little eye contact might pass along the hint, “yeah, you’re busted, I’m feeling weird here.”  Yeah, he totally didn’t get the point– or couldn’t find a damn to give.  I will never know.

It didn’t stop me from putting in a solid hour and a half workout, put out 9 miles on the bike/elliptical, burned somewhere above 600 calories for the workout.  I say it wasn’t too bad of a second day back.  I am pretty stoked for this.

Hell, I got good news, and I got a chuckle in today.  I’d call today a win… but I’m not sure which way to look at the funny part.  I mean either I’m a hot mess, or things are going to get downright awkward once I get my bodyfat percentage down.

Unplug.