So I finally made it to the gym. Thankful for my all-wheel drive vehicle that catapulted me over the snowbanks left by the Town snowplow. Grateful for a rear window wiper to keep the sheets of slush-grunge from blocking my view.
I really felt like such a grandma. Not that I couldn’t do the weight lifting, 60 walking lunges and an elliptical run for 10 minutes. I know my body is going to punish me tomorrow, but, ‘no pain, no gain’. Or in my case, muscle gain and weight loss.
It’s the young guys who make the working out so entertaining. They’re all tricked out in the latest workout gear and fluorescent shoes. They’re trying so hard to be muscle-heads. Heaving 60 pound dumbbells with exaggerated grunts as they try to max out their reps for arm lifts. Geez, the veins in their arms and necks look like they’re about to burst. That can’t be good. Their buddies spot them with words of encouragement (you can do this f***ing thing, man, sure you can.’) But the weights are far too heavy to do much good. I try not to stare as one young man, his calves not much bigger than my forearms, manhandles an over-plated barbell, attempting a dead lift. He spends a few minutes getting set, his lips moving as he psyches himself up. The only thing missing is the Olympic-style chalk on the palms and the taped wrists and ankles.
“Oh, my dear,” I feel like saying, “you’re going to pay for that when you’re 45 and trying to lift a kid’s bicycle into the back of your mini-van.” He strains mightily to get the bar waist high then drops it with a yell. The damned thing bounces to the floor. Very dramatic. He surreptitiously glances around to see if anyone has been watching him. I have been, but indirectly, in the reflection of the glass wall in front of my leg press machine (30 pounds only for now). It’s all about the show. “Wipe off the bar”, I want to scold. The gangsta tattoo of a red rose on the right calf? Really? That’s the worst you could do? The quick flex in the mirror to check that the right parts are inflated by the lifting? You’re seriously over-compensating, dude. Is that really necessary for your self-esteem?
I wish I had the courage to tell them that women are not attracted to the Neanderthal grunting, muscle popping, accidental farting as they strain to lift. Yes, boys, in the midst of all of your he-man vocalizations and f-bombing, your ass is expelling great gusts of wind from your gut. You think we can’t hear it? Mom’s can hear a boy pass gas from 30 meters. Not attractive at all, trust me on that!