Gettin’ Swole

I want to start this blog post by issuing an apology to all of the women of the world. I just want you to know how sorry I am that my species acts the way it does.

Let me explain.

As I’ve chronicled in a number of blog posts, I’ve been frequenting the gym in an effort to lose some of that extra weight I’ve gained since the birth of the baby. And by birth of the baby I mean, since my birth.

In most cases I head over there in the morning when the clientele is a few people here and there getting a workout in before their work day. And in those cases I usually jump on a treadmill or a bike and get a nice cardio burn in.

But yesterday, well, yesterday was a little different.

For starters I showed up and went to the locker room to change and realized I didn’t have any shorts. I contemplated working out in boxers (I mean, technically they do have the word “shorts” in them) but realized that the police station is too close to the gym for me to try that one. I could just see the headline in the paper reading, “Local man suffers wardrobe malfunction during lunge; seven seriously injured.”

Thus, I was relegated to a post-work day workout when I know the number of people increases exponentially. And that’s fine, I’ve worked out in the afternoon plenty before.

What I had never done in the afternoon, though, is work out on the first floor. That’s where the dumb bells are. Literally, and figuratively.

Lex Luger was that rare wrestler who had the total package.
His finishing move was a devastating headlock where
the steroids would rub off his arms and onto your neck,
enlarging your throat and cutting off your
supply of oxygen.

Let’s start with the guy I spotted right when I walked in. He was parading around with his chest all puffed out like he was some sort of swollen peacock strutting around the petting zoo. Immediately after seeing him I dug through my bag and tossed an extra stick of deodorant to him because his arms were so far out to his sides that he looked like he was trying to air dry his arm pits.

Wouldn’t you know, then, that the second I walked into the locker room to change he was right behind me and practically tearing his shirt off so he could get a look at his chest in the mirror. The only time I’ve ever been so quick to take my shirt off and check out my chest is if something’s growing on it that needs to be lanced.

At this point I couldn’t help but watch him out of the corner of my eye as he proceeded to rip off two flexes that stretched the limits of the green tribal tattoo across his shoulders.

Oh, I forgot to mention that he had a tribal tattoo on his back? I just figured the second I mentioned “Epic toolbox” that you just pictured him with it. If a tattoo on the lower back of a girl is called a tramp stamp then the tribal tattoo on the upper back of a guy should be called, “Dink Ink.”

Just about the time he started Hulking up, a buddy of his walked in and said, “What up, bro?”

Bro. Classic.

“What workout did you do today?” Bro 2 asks.
“Arms,” Bro 1 replies.

Of course. As if there was any other viable option.

At this point I had enough of the “Bros” and went back out to the gym. That was like trying to escape a house fire by jumping into the furnace. Suddenly I was surrounded by them. I did a quick inventory of what was going on by the mirror:

People: 7
Gallon jugs of water: 7
Dumb bells: 14
Sleeves: 0

I couldn’t believe that lineup. There were more tools in that aisle than you’d find at a Sears.

And actually that’s probably true because I’m pretty sure Sears is going out of business. A shame, really.

But I digress.

I think if the gym were ever to get rid of the free weights or the squat racks all these guys would make do. But if you ever got rid of that mirror some serious shit would hit the fan. I think the only reason they carry around those gallon jugs is so that they have something heavier to flex with while drinking.

I actually walked by a guy who was flexing while he was drinking out of his jug. When I got close enough, I noticed the jug was empty. He was just standing there striking a pose.

A few minutes later, my workout partner and I are at a squat rack doing cleans. We both have a barbell loaded with weights so we don’t have to switch them around so much and while I’m standing there over this thing ready to clean it some meathead walks up and says, “You still using that?”

Are you kidding me? Am I using it? It’s in my hand still! If this guy spent even half as much time studying as he spent at the gym he might be able to read something that doesn’t have an ad for Creatine on every other page.

I was never a tool like the guys I write about. Take this pic,
for example. It’s just a candid shot taken in my room when I was 19.
So what if I set the timer on the camera myself after I just got done
doing pushups for 20 minutes straight and snapped four versions
until I was happy with the definition in my ‘ceps. Just me being me.

I don’t blame these guys, though. In fact, if I had the kinds of arms they have I probably wouldn’t wear sleeves either. And if I had abs like some of these bros have, I wouldn’t ever wear a shirt. I’d just walk around in my schmedium t-shirt just hoping to God I come across someone who needs a tourniquet so I could rip off my shirt and tie it around their leg to cut off the blood flow.

But as it stands now, I won’t be packing sleeveless shirts anytime soon. In fact, you know those fat hairy guys that wear shirts in the pool?

Well, I wear shirts in the shower.

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