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

I know that a lot of things are the worst, right? Like, going to the dentist is the worst, or having to shoot your dog after he gets rabies is also the worst. But seriously, salesmen are the worst.

Granted, there are probably some salesmen out there that are not so much the worst, but generally they indeed are just the worst kind of person.

This week at work I found out that the "sub-office" I work in with ten other people is being taken over by the sales department and made into an office/lounge for two of the main sales guys. Sure, I'm a realist--I know that office politics dictate that things like this will happen, but these marketing guys make me wish I could go back in time to punch them in the face when they were little kids (it would be more traumatic that way) and then go even farther back in time and punch their mothers in the face before they were born (just out of spite).

You know these guys: always dressed in gym clothes with sweat bands in inexplicable places (really guy, do you need one on your ankle?), always wearing their North Carolina Tarheels ball caps backwards while looking up You Tube clips of last night's ball game, always talking about how sore their lats are from yesterday's workout...

They're so arrogant, but really they don't do anything but answer the phone and lie to old people. Hey good job man, you just tricked an 85-year-old lady into buying a warranty she'll never use and told her that the delivery guys will bring it into her house even though you know they won't. Screw her! Just because her doctor told her she needed to exercise more because of her hypertension doesn't mean you shouldn't employ some of those "closing tactics" you learned last summer lying to old people in Atlanta for APX! Your job is really something to be proud of at the end of the day, you know. You're making a difference!

I guess in the end it proves that people don't really change from the high school versions of themselves. These salesmen guys were scamming good grades out of their teachers and talking about fantasy football while I was drawing cartoons of my teachers getting pooped on by birds. Now, those guys get paid to be the best liars they can be (while sitting around talking about fantasy football), and I draw pictures of birds pooping on my college professors.

Moral of my story: If you are a salesman, don't lie to people because then nobody will respect you, not even your fellow salesmen, and late at night when your wife and children have gone to sleep you will feel a slithering sense of existential dread creeping over you like a terrible leaden blanket, and you will begin to think that underneath all those layers of fake handshakes, expensive colognes, and white-strip enhanced smiles--you have no idea who you've become.

Actual moral: I really don't want to move all my stuff to a new desk.

Labels: Chase the misanthrope, work

I have recently noticed a sign that I might be getting older and possibly out of touch. I at least think that I'm still au courant but I could be wrong. Anyway, the main sign of my impending oldness seems to be that I cannot stand anything to do with teenage culture. I hate teenagers. Especially their clothes.




Seriously, this kind of thing makes my head hurt. If I were still teen-aged I wouldn't appreciate looking like the lone survivor of a modern art museum explosion.

Ditto to the whole American Apparel/retarded retroism that the youngish hipsters favor. Check out these lensless glasses! I'm full of style! I was literally not alive in the 80's but I still think it's hilarious to dress like I'm on the set of Bill and Ted's excellent adventure! I don't remember where I read this but someone described these kids that wear a lot of American Apparel as dressing like 9-year-olds at gymnastics sleepaway camp circa 1987. LOL.




I know what you're thinking, and yes I have perpetrated many fashion misdeeds in my time (let's just say that I owned and frequently made use of a puka shell necklace) so clearly, I'm not above scrutiny. Even my own personal brand of style, something I call the "homeless cowboy™" isn't that cool. Doesn't mean I still can't hate on others though, right?

Labels: Chase the misanthrope

1. Arrive to your 45-minute-long class with 20 minutes remaining. Slam the door behind you, passing several open seats in the front of the class (while letting your enormous backpack bounce off each table as you walk) and go straight to the back row where there is one empty spot in the corner. Climb over/through those already seated without making eye contact.

2. After finally taking your seat, drop your horse-sized backpack on your neighbor's foot. Start unzipping your seemingly unending layers of outerwear as loudly as possible while coughing vigorously. Don't forget your fleece vest bro!

3. Immediately allow your cell phone to start ringing and wait 45 seconds before reacting to its earsplitting tone. Rummage through your gargantuan rucksack, opening and closing a minimum of at least seven zippered pockets. Once you find the phone, answer it in a "whisper voice" several times louder than a regular voice. Tell the caller that you "just got to class" and that you will "hit them back" later. Fart inaudibly.

4. Only moments after retrieving the phone, start opening various pockets of your made-for-giants bag and, after some struggle, pull a bottle of vitamin water and a cellophane package of granola from its cavernous depths. Alternately shake out granola into your hand (with all the attendant crinkly noises from the packaging) and slurp down gulps of vitamin water. No doubt your trek from the natural resources building depleted all your energy! Truly, the most logical place to eat is the English class you showed up to 30 minutes late. Breathe heavily through your nose while chewing. Fart again, this time, audibly.

5. Begin to ask the instructor questions. When the instructor responds, do not under any circumstances, listen to what he says. Ask more questions, each one more self explanatory and obtuse than the last. Inadvertently elbow your neighbor while he furiously writes this very polemic.

6. Gather your multitude of belongings vociferously into your portable motor home of a bag and leave the class three minutes before it ends. Fart again as you walk out the door.

Labels: Chase the misanthrope