The evangelical exerciser.
Yesterday the paramour said he was feeling a bit better now that he has joined me in some exercise-football season is over for the mo and he had been busy sitting around until last week.
Naturally this admission brought forth a burst of 'See! That's terrific!! And next week we'll...'
It went on for some time.
After which he said, 'Well, I don't think I'm as evangelical as you about it, but I do feel a bit better, that's all.'
Then he went around a roundabout too quickly and I forgot all about what we were talking about as I concentrated on keeping my stomach below my rib cage.
But it popped up into my head this morning.
Evangelical?
I hadn't thought I was, but then again he could well be correct. After all, I have talked a country gay into running. I have a Satdee post open for chumlies. I have made Etheline take up weights. Back in the days when I conversed with the Lilac Couch I was forever trying to get her to move her arse. I check Crossfit obsessively each day, following progress the way some people follow stocks.
See chumlies, I don't get people who don't do anything with their bodies. I don't. I can't get my head around them. I see people in my gym all the freaking time, walking slowly on the treadmills watching soap operas or MTV, not even breaking a sweat and I want to run up to them and ask, 'Why are you doing that? Why won't you go faster? Why wouldn't you just walk around the block? Don't you feel you should go faster? Won't you at least try? here, just push it up a bit, there! that's right, see? You can do it!'
I see people on the weight machines, pulling down 2k and again I'm filled with, 'Why? Why? There's no resistance, it's too fast, engage your muscles, make the movement count! here let me show you, more weight! More weight!!'
I watch women avoid the free weight section like they might catch muscliness merely by association.
'Come back!' I inwardly holler, 'Don't be afraid, come join us! You might like it! Let me show you how to do a push press!'
My current peeve is people who get on the rowing machine, row for precisely half a K and then get off, they usually follow getting off by drinking long and hard from their sports drink, having depleted their energy reserves with their Herculean efforts.
'Stop drinking that crap! Get back on and hit it hard for at least hit 15 minutes, sweat sweat, push up the resistance! Dig deep, haul ass, here I'll race you! Wanna race? Do you? huh huh?'
Then no sooner have I thought this, I am filled with,'Mind you own fucking business, what the hell is it to you what way people exercise? You're hardly one to talk, Jesus bloody christ you're such a bloody-'
Quite right.
But that doesn't stop the evangelical side of me from getting all huffy and sneery. 'Screw you tolerant dweeb.' It will say, 'I'm here to testify!'
I regularly fuck my own self up my competing with others in the gym. There is a lady who goes on Saturday who is pretty bloody buff actually, and also the colour of walnut. If I see her in the weights section, I immediately up my game. If I am on the rowing machine and the cute red haired chap with the minging tattoo gets on too, I won't be getting off my machine until he goes first.
And then I'm PERMANENTLY in competition with myself. Have I gone up a weight on the bench? Down a weight on the grav? No? Why not? WHY?
Now there is no reason in the world for this kind of stupidity, but I'm filled with it.
The only time I am not filled with competition is when I'm running. Which is rather a pain in the arse actually, since I plan to run a lot over the next few years. But nope, I hate running with groups, I like running on my Sweeny Todd, I like fucking poodling! However, with the Bupa Great Run coming up in two weeks, I'd better find a way quick smart to get over that load of old hooey.
Oh we all have demons. Mine is called Daisy, Lazy Daisy, the poodlingist poodler of Poodlington Hall.
But enough about me and enough about Daisy. People! When you go to the gym, give it everything you've got. You're only there for a short while you might as well put the pedal to the metal. Sweat damn you. Burn calories, force those muscles to work. And if you see a lobster faced mongrel haired woman both glaring and smiling at you and possibly talking to herself, ignore her. Or speed up.
Naturally this admission brought forth a burst of 'See! That's terrific!! And next week we'll...'
It went on for some time.
After which he said, 'Well, I don't think I'm as evangelical as you about it, but I do feel a bit better, that's all.'
Then he went around a roundabout too quickly and I forgot all about what we were talking about as I concentrated on keeping my stomach below my rib cage.
But it popped up into my head this morning.
Evangelical?
I hadn't thought I was, but then again he could well be correct. After all, I have talked a country gay into running. I have a Satdee post open for chumlies. I have made Etheline take up weights. Back in the days when I conversed with the Lilac Couch I was forever trying to get her to move her arse. I check Crossfit obsessively each day, following progress the way some people follow stocks.
See chumlies, I don't get people who don't do anything with their bodies. I don't. I can't get my head around them. I see people in my gym all the freaking time, walking slowly on the treadmills watching soap operas or MTV, not even breaking a sweat and I want to run up to them and ask, 'Why are you doing that? Why won't you go faster? Why wouldn't you just walk around the block? Don't you feel you should go faster? Won't you at least try? here, just push it up a bit, there! that's right, see? You can do it!'
I see people on the weight machines, pulling down 2k and again I'm filled with, 'Why? Why? There's no resistance, it's too fast, engage your muscles, make the movement count! here let me show you, more weight! More weight!!'
I watch women avoid the free weight section like they might catch muscliness merely by association.
'Come back!' I inwardly holler, 'Don't be afraid, come join us! You might like it! Let me show you how to do a push press!'
My current peeve is people who get on the rowing machine, row for precisely half a K and then get off, they usually follow getting off by drinking long and hard from their sports drink, having depleted their energy reserves with their Herculean efforts.
'Stop drinking that crap! Get back on and hit it hard for at least hit 15 minutes, sweat sweat, push up the resistance! Dig deep, haul ass, here I'll race you! Wanna race? Do you? huh huh?'
Then no sooner have I thought this, I am filled with,'Mind you own fucking business, what the hell is it to you what way people exercise? You're hardly one to talk, Jesus bloody christ you're such a bloody-'
Quite right.
But that doesn't stop the evangelical side of me from getting all huffy and sneery. 'Screw you tolerant dweeb.' It will say, 'I'm here to testify!'
I regularly fuck my own self up my competing with others in the gym. There is a lady who goes on Saturday who is pretty bloody buff actually, and also the colour of walnut. If I see her in the weights section, I immediately up my game. If I am on the rowing machine and the cute red haired chap with the minging tattoo gets on too, I won't be getting off my machine until he goes first.
And then I'm PERMANENTLY in competition with myself. Have I gone up a weight on the bench? Down a weight on the grav? No? Why not? WHY?
Now there is no reason in the world for this kind of stupidity, but I'm filled with it.
The only time I am not filled with competition is when I'm running. Which is rather a pain in the arse actually, since I plan to run a lot over the next few years. But nope, I hate running with groups, I like running on my Sweeny Todd, I like fucking poodling! However, with the Bupa Great Run coming up in two weeks, I'd better find a way quick smart to get over that load of old hooey.
Oh we all have demons. Mine is called Daisy, Lazy Daisy, the poodlingist poodler of Poodlington Hall.
But enough about me and enough about Daisy. People! When you go to the gym, give it everything you've got. You're only there for a short while you might as well put the pedal to the metal. Sweat damn you. Burn calories, force those muscles to work. And if you see a lobster faced mongrel haired woman both glaring and smiling at you and possibly talking to herself, ignore her. Or speed up.
posted by fatmammycat at 10:20 am
48 comments
