The Death of Enthusiasm

For whatever reason, my tow best friends are pretty much gym rats. I don’t begrudge them this, and I actually admire their dedication. I feel strangely envious when they start discussing how sore their traps are, or how many reps(?) they do(?). (Sorry, as you can tell, I’m not up on the whole workin’ out lingo.)

I hate working out. Not like most people hate it, though. I think most people don’t like having to put in the effort of the workout. I don’t really mind the workout itself; it’s just the aftermath of the exercise that gets me. It seems like my body is not able to deal with lifting weights or exercising for any period of time without some kind of terrible breakdown afterward.

Have you every heard of a runner’s high? It’s supposed to be some sort of endorphin rush that runners get after pushing themselves to the limit. Well, I think I lack whatever chemical reaction is necessary for the “runner’s high.” I’ve never felt good after having worked out; I’ve actually never felt even just OK. Afterward, I’m always shaky and weak, my head hurts, I’m about to throw up, and on top of that I have exercise-induced asthma, which leaves me coughing and gasping for air for at least an hour. It’s almost as if God himself didn’t want me to touch a treadmill. Or, maybe he just doesn’t want me to have to spend time with people that go to the gym, A LOT (who are some of the most annoyingly self-absorbed people in the world).

Hold on—I understand that exercising regularly will lengthen your life and that people who do so are no doubt wise and full of truth and light. HOWEVER, I have also seen that a large number of regular gym users have crossed over from doing it for fitness reasons and being “concerned with my overall health and happiness” to “concerned about keeping my arms shaved/oiled and increasing the appearance of veins of my calves.” It’s actually kind of scary how narcissistic some of these people are, I mean sure, I spend a few minutes a day picking out my clothes and carefully messing up my hair before I leave in the morning, but it’s not my main interest. And again, I’m not Professor of Hobby Studies at Leisure University, but shouldn’t a hobby be something that is productive in some way? Like learning a skill? Or if you are going to lift weights, maybe it could be for a specific reason, like you play a sport and want to become stronger so you can excel at it?

Yet, the total end goal of these muscle guys is to look really big and muscled? Like, oh yeah, congrats dude, you’ve reached your goal, now go stare at yourself in the mirror for twenty minutes. Mmmmm brother, soak it in. It was so worth it, man! All that andro and creatine and protein powder and time in the tanning booth! It’s been a long, crazy ride, Bro Montana! Keep in touch!

Labels: Chase the misanthrope, pumpin iron