I Am A Lizard
Now and again I get the urge to get off my big white butt and hit the gym and boy, do I hate when I get that urge. My natural habitat is the living room couch, where I graze contentedly on chips, gum, and in a pinch, couch candy. (Couch candy = you lift up the cushions and...you know what? This is disGUSting. Never mind.)
I have never believed no pain no gain, and have no interest in pushing myself to the limit, ever (if you don't believe me, check out one of my books). Nor do I want to feel the burn. Feel the burn, what are they, crazy? I was taught burns are bad. I was taught not to seek out burns. Being in a gym and feeling burned is pretty much my idea of the seventh circle of hell. (If you don't believe me, check out my big white butt.)
(Random reader: "Why, MJ? Why are you making me picture that first thing in the morning? I trusted you!" "Yeah, well, win some, lose some.")
But now and then, I feel a searing pain in my left arm followed by numbness, so I throw out my hot dog stuff with bacon (the Badog!) and spend an hour or so looking for my so-called athletic shoes. Then I venture into sub-zero temps, start my car, curse my car, scrape my car, curse my car more, curse myself for leaving the couch, curse the gym, curse my mother, curse my butt, curse the Badog, curse my car more...really, the whole ordeal...it's just exhausting.
My local YMCA is pretty great, if you're into that stuff: terrific staff, the place is spotless, smells pretty good (like clean pools), there are plenty of machines...and they constantly play the Food Network on their TVs.
Why? Why would you do that, YMCA? Why would you make me watch my beloved Ina Garten whip up coconut cupcakes when I'm trying to behave responsibly? I'm following your rules. I've never peed in your pool. I don't eat soft serve ice cream on the treadmill anymore. I don't coax employees to set up the treadmills in a "Here It Goes Again" video situation. But despite my obedience, now I have to look at pictures of, and think about, Braised Beef Tips.
Also, I don't sweat. I mean, obviously I do. But not enough to ever have to wipe down any machine I'm trapped in, be it the treadmill (where's my food pellet? shouldn't I be chasing a food pellet?), the stationery bike (which I like to call Having A Heart Attack While Sitting Down), or the stairs I have to climb in order to use the Stairmaster. Yeah. You read that right. Irony, you are the cruelest of mistresses.
I don't sweat, like I said, but the same can't be said of everyone. In fact, some people are sweat machines. You just have to wave a chili pepper at them and their forehead and chest instantly looks like the running Nile. Hey, I don't care, just don't flaunt your sweat and tight butt at me, that's all I ask. Everyone has to wipe down the machine when they're done, in case an errant drop of sweat or some soft serve ice cream splatters on the machine.
But it's all worth it to be healthy, right? Yeah, I don't agree, either. Regardless, I labored, lizard-like, while listening to the Tom Jones version of "Burning Down the House", Korn's version of "Kidnap the Sandy Claws", and Annie Lennox's "Little Bird". And, okay, I'm ashamed, but also Kanye's "Monster". I know, he's a dick. He's his own biggest fan and picking on Taylor Swift is right up there with throwing acid at puppies. It hurts me to say even one nice thing about him, but the guy can occasionally come up with pretty cool songs when he's not focusing his energy on being an asshat.
Despite the music, I was the only dry person in a sea of sponges. Except for my drool (stupid Food Network!). But I obediently did my thirty minutes ("They catch you?" "Yeah." "How long you in for?" "Thirty minutes."), then wiped off the non-existent sweat, took one more peek at the Food Network (Cornmeal Fried Onion Rings), snagged a Snickers from the machine, got my stuff, and headed out to get groceries. Weirdly, I mostly bought cornmeal, pudding, cupcakes, beef tips, and onions.
Hey, it's all about being healthy, right?
I have never believed no pain no gain, and have no interest in pushing myself to the limit, ever (if you don't believe me, check out one of my books). Nor do I want to feel the burn. Feel the burn, what are they, crazy? I was taught burns are bad. I was taught not to seek out burns. Being in a gym and feeling burned is pretty much my idea of the seventh circle of hell. (If you don't believe me, check out my big white butt.)
(Random reader: "Why, MJ? Why are you making me picture that first thing in the morning? I trusted you!" "Yeah, well, win some, lose some.")
But now and then, I feel a searing pain in my left arm followed by numbness, so I throw out my hot dog stuff with bacon (the Badog!) and spend an hour or so looking for my so-called athletic shoes. Then I venture into sub-zero temps, start my car, curse my car, scrape my car, curse my car more, curse myself for leaving the couch, curse the gym, curse my mother, curse my butt, curse the Badog, curse my car more...really, the whole ordeal...it's just exhausting.
My local YMCA is pretty great, if you're into that stuff: terrific staff, the place is spotless, smells pretty good (like clean pools), there are plenty of machines...and they constantly play the Food Network on their TVs.
Why? Why would you do that, YMCA? Why would you make me watch my beloved Ina Garten whip up coconut cupcakes when I'm trying to behave responsibly? I'm following your rules. I've never peed in your pool. I don't eat soft serve ice cream on the treadmill anymore. I don't coax employees to set up the treadmills in a "Here It Goes Again" video situation. But despite my obedience, now I have to look at pictures of, and think about, Braised Beef Tips.
Also, I don't sweat. I mean, obviously I do. But not enough to ever have to wipe down any machine I'm trapped in, be it the treadmill (where's my food pellet? shouldn't I be chasing a food pellet?), the stationery bike (which I like to call Having A Heart Attack While Sitting Down), or the stairs I have to climb in order to use the Stairmaster. Yeah. You read that right. Irony, you are the cruelest of mistresses.
I don't sweat, like I said, but the same can't be said of everyone. In fact, some people are sweat machines. You just have to wave a chili pepper at them and their forehead and chest instantly looks like the running Nile. Hey, I don't care, just don't flaunt your sweat and tight butt at me, that's all I ask. Everyone has to wipe down the machine when they're done, in case an errant drop of sweat or some soft serve ice cream splatters on the machine.
But it's all worth it to be healthy, right? Yeah, I don't agree, either. Regardless, I labored, lizard-like, while listening to the Tom Jones version of "Burning Down the House", Korn's version of "Kidnap the Sandy Claws", and Annie Lennox's "Little Bird". And, okay, I'm ashamed, but also Kanye's "Monster". I know, he's a dick. He's his own biggest fan and picking on Taylor Swift is right up there with throwing acid at puppies. It hurts me to say even one nice thing about him, but the guy can occasionally come up with pretty cool songs when he's not focusing his energy on being an asshat.
Despite the music, I was the only dry person in a sea of sponges. Except for my drool (stupid Food Network!). But I obediently did my thirty minutes ("They catch you?" "Yeah." "How long you in for?" "Thirty minutes."), then wiped off the non-existent sweat, took one more peek at the Food Network (Cornmeal Fried Onion Rings), snagged a Snickers from the machine, got my stuff, and headed out to get groceries. Weirdly, I mostly bought cornmeal, pudding, cupcakes, beef tips, and onions.
Hey, it's all about being healthy, right?
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