I still find myself fascinated with everyone’s obsession to constantly make themselves pour out litre after litre of sweat, in order to make their body parts stand out a fraction more than they naturally do. It has created a whole new breed of human beings who are predominantly muscle based life forms, feasting on the worthless flesh those who do not follow their idiotic scheme to lift pieces of metal and make their arms hurt for the next week and a half.
“Wow. Do you work out?” used to be a form of flattery enforced by women to strike up a conversation with someone they fancied. But now, it just seems like a statement of fact, that if spoken, would make you seem to be a simpleton who is only let out of the house to purchase bread and milk for their mother, before having to return home and continue the game of Yu-Gi-Oh that they never quite learned how to play. Did I mention they’re 23 years old? Because that’s important. Yep. 23.
Every time I have ever been to the gym, I’ve been forced into doing things which if repeated in the basement of the man down the street, who calls his dog Ronald and has entire conversations which span over the course of 4 hours about politics and then proceeding to understand every bark as a dexterous response, would be a form of torture. I get told to “Feel the burn” and “Break my limit”, but I’d really rather not. I’d rather stay at home and eat Mars Bar and fried chicken sandwiches and let my organs and bones rot naturally while I watch the 18th repeat of the episode of Top Gear when they travel to Vietnam and ride mopeds, on DAVE.
Don’t get me wrong. I do see the fundamental appeal of going to the gym. I’ve always wished I could be physically able to lift up a train and then win Mr. Universe, but these dreams exceed my ability as a human being. So they should. I also realise that women seem to find muscles attractive and that if I ever need to save a womans life by opening a jar of strawberry jam, I could actually be of some use. But why put yourself through so much pain just so when you one day need to move house, you might not need help moving the piano into the moving truck. It seems like such a waste of money to be allowed access to a building where you lift pieces of metal, and watch other men also lift some pieces of metal. Maybe with a side order of running on a treadmill.
However, I can get over the fact that people want to go to the gym quickly and easily. It’s their choice and I respect them for training to get to how look how they do now. But what I cannot stand, is people adopting these pretend lives, where they brag about how much metal they can lift, and how far they can run. All while saying “Oh I can’t have a steak! I’m trying to cut out meat so I can get into better shape”. That’s where the line cuts.
Why on earth would you go to the gym and cause yourself mental and physical pain, then come out and force yourself not to eat the foods you enjoy? Is it really worth it so you can wear an extra-small t-shirt and say “Yep. That’s right. I work out.”? Being a health enthusiast is a lifestyle meant only for athletes and the personal trainers of those athletes.
I have regular nightmares in which the world’s population is forced, by the leaders of their individual countries of origin, to go to the gym everyday until their veins are exploding out of their foreheads, and they can’t even look a cheeseburger in the eye without needing to smash it into pieces with their fists of iron. I’m dreading the day in which my child is born inside a gym, instead of a hospital, just so they can get him/her to lift a few weights before they cut the umbilical cord.
This future is coming soon. Warn the foetuses.