Friday, November 05, 2004

The Weighting Is The Hardest Part

I belong to a gym, but I don't belong in a gym. Big difference. Still, there are infrequent occasions when I muster the courage to show my scrawny frame in the weight room.

I can't tell you what the roided-out muscleheads are thinking when they see my tall, wire-thin, pencil-necked skeleton plop down at the weight bench next to them, but I won't rule out that they believe I'm a pale version of those malnourished African kids who pathetically cavort with Sally Struthers on television.

Seeing my rib cage poking through my skin, they might say, "Hey, Ndugu, you need a spot?"

"No, mon," I'll say, "but could you keep the flies away from my rice while I finish this set?"

Despite the overwhelming likelihood of embarrassing myself, I cowboyed up and visited that perilous corner of this gym two nights ago. In the past, I have ventured into the weight room only at off hours and lifted the two-pound pink dumbbells in relative peace and anonymity. But the other day, trying my best not to look like a complete poseur in front of a packed gym, I racked on a little extra weight.

Bad idea.

After a workout that included bench presses, bicep curls, the pec deck and a triceps exercise that nearly caused me to blow out an O-ring (again), my upper body is so sore and tender that even a moderate breeze sends me writhing to the floor in a quivering mass of tears and snot. And my condition is causing myriad problems in my day-to-day existence:

•A new employee was paraded around the office yesterday and when I reached my hand out to shake hers, I couldn’t life my arm above my waist, thereby forcing me to greet the newbie with a headbutt. She and I now sport matching red welts on our foreheads.

• In the shower this morning, trying to lift my hands high enough to wash my hair was a futile exercise. Combing it was equally as difficult, so as I sit here writing, my head is a matted mess of unkempt, unclean, uncombed fur. But, hey, it’s Casual Friday in the office anyway.

• I paid for lunch with a credit card yesterday and when I was asked to sign the receipt, I had to put the pen in my nose and scribble my name by moving my entire head in the shape of my autograph. That was hard enough, but imagine trying to remove a writing implement from your nose without using your hands. I tried shaking my head back and forth, but that didn’t work. I had to resort to the Snot Rocket routine, a strategy that succeeded in dislodging the pen, but not without a robust accompaniment that reminded everyone within a 20-foot radius that the cold and flu season is upon us.

Why do I do this to myself? The ridicule and the pain and the paralysis and the projectile boogers are not worth the minimal gains I get from my sporadic workouts. But if I'm going to live in a house with an aerobics instructor, I suppose it's incumbent upon me to uphold my end of the Hotness Factor in our house. Why couldn't Hot Wife have taken up a vocation more suited to my skill set, like politics or child care or acting?


At 1:41 PM, Blogger sevans said...

You don't really want me to comment on this one, do you?

At 4:59 PM, Blogger Lala said...

I think that if you're going to be working out more you should buy one of those head band thingies that holds a pen near your mouth, like the artists with no hands who probably do your Hannukah cards. It would solve the hairstyle problem too.

At 7:52 PM, Blogger honestyrain said...

peeing my pants again. well done.


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