I think my parents must have repeatedly dropped me on my head when I was a young child. That sure would explain a lot. Like choosing journalism as a career field. Naming my cat "Beavis." Those 'NSync CDs I bought.
It would also help explain why I am trying to lose weight at this time of year. Making a concerted effort to drop some pounds during the holiday season is about one of the most idiotic things that someone could do, right next to voting for any Independent American Party candidate.
But after seeing myself on a local news TV show the other day, I couldn't help it. While, logically, I know that I am a little overweight but not obese or anything, after seeing myself on TV, I felt as if I was at risk to be unexpectedly harpooned on the streets of Sparks/Reno at any moment.
This sent me to 24 Hour Fitness faster than a Green Party member would run from a Corvair.
Now, let me explain something here: I have been a "member" of this fine chain of meat-markets, I mean gyms, for nearly three years. For the first four months that I was a member, I went at least four or five times a week, and I noticed a big difference in the way I was looking. Fat disappeared, muscle debuted, and I had more energy.
But then due to a number of circumstances, the frequency of my gym visits dropped off. First, I managed to go about three times a week, then once or twice a week. Then, monthly visits were the norm. Finally, I was going so little that I was essentially donating $35 per month to 24 Hour Fitness for nothing. I truly believe I was single-handedly paying for the company to install more neon in their gyms.
Yes, neon. The gym I usually go to is bedecked with more neon than some major casinos I've seen. What in the HELL is this for? People go to gyms for one of two reasons: to get in shape, or to get into someone who is in shape, if you catch my drift. How does neon play into this? Is Ferenc Szony responsible for the gym decor at 24 Hour Fitness' Northern Nevada locations? Is there some corporate edict that "tacky" is the standard these gyms need to live by? Is the neon there in hopes of getting the people who join the gym to suddenly stop going when they realize how lame-looking the inside of the facility is?
That's another thing. These gyms, for the most part, don't give a rat's ass about the fat on, well, your ass or anywhere else. They want you to join, pay your monthly fee, buy some clothes and protein bars the density of marble at their little overpriced shop, and then spend your time at a place like Krispy Kreme rather than the gym. They're sneaky about it. Instead of having you send in a check every month, they set it up so payments are automatically withdrawn from a credit card or bank account. In other words, you can't just say, "Hey, I haven't been to the gym since, well, Halley's Comet was last here; maybe I shouldn't pay this." No, no, no. You have to get an act of Congress to get the gym to stop taking that money. The bastards. The in-shape, wealthy, Nike-wearing BASTARDS!
But I digress. Anyway, after seeing my self on TV looking, at least in my mind's eye, like I was just a notch away from John Goodman, squared, on the blubber scale, I decided to start getting at least some of my money's worth out of 24 Hour Fitness. I've been going at least every other day for the last two weeks, and I'm feeling pretty good.
Oh, but WAIT! What is on the calendar for this Thursday? Thanksgiving. Yes, that special American holiday where we give thanks for the fall harvest and all that is good in the world by individually mowing through enough fattening food to feed the Oakland Raiders defensive line for a full week during normal circumstances. Then will come Christmas/Chanukah/whatever, with candy and fudge and those weird salamis from Hickory Farms.
This is clearly not the time of year to try and lose weight, unless limb amputation is your cup of tea.
Man, this is depressing. If you'll forgive me, I'm going to go now put in an 'NSync CD, read a newspaper and pet Beavis. And dream of the day that there's actually a Krispy Kreme in Reno.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who will be hogging the stuffing come Thursday. His (Jimmy's, not the stuffing's) column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.