I woke up this morning feeling like I had a Ford F-350 truck on top of my chest. I thought to myself, “how did that happen?” Then I remembered, “I went back to the gym yesterday.”
As you have guessed, I haven’t been to the gym in a while. Matter of fact, I haven’t been all summer. I wouldn’t exactly say I’ve been sedentary. But I’ll have to give the rundown on my “athletic pursuits” another day.
I wouldn’t call myself a natural athlete. I don’t feel athletic at all. My oldest son has described me as “bookish.” I’m not sure if that’s good or not, but as the football coaches say, “it is what it is.” Whatever that means. But several years ago, I read a book called Younger Next Year. One piece of advice that stuck with me was that if you are over fifty, you need to do some strength training. So I read that book, filed that information away in the corners of my mind, and promptly went out and got a job that just about killed me.
Fast-forward to last year. I’m starting to notice that I’m getting saggy. It occurs to me that I probably shouldn’t take off my shirt in public. Living in a beach community, this realization seems as though it could affect my quality of life. I’m even beginning to think of searching Amazon to see if there is such a thing as a man-bra. So, I had to do something.
I found this gym near my house that used to be a racquetball facility back when racquetball was cool. They kept the racquetball layout and distributed the fitness equipment throughout the gym. So this means that you can pretty much get your own room to work out in. No muscleheads glaring down at you in contempt. No hotties to make you feel like a beached whale. And no crowds. You just go in, get it done, and get out. Which is about the only way I would ever go to a gym.
So, I’m still debating about whether to take the shirt off in public, but at least I’m not mortified by the thought of it anymore.
Half Baked 