A GYM OF AN IDEA

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I see that you’re looking at me a little different today. Oh, yeah. You’re right. There is something different. That’s right -- I’m buff. And it’s all because I joined a gym.

OK, so the results to date may not be showing (at least not through a picture of me that was taken about three years ago), but I can tell it’s working. For one thing, I have great difficulty getting out of bed in the morning, thanks to the intense pain in every single one of my muscles, which now include at least a dozen more than I previously had.

My wife and I decided to join a gym together. Yes, nothing says romance like the phrases, "Honey, can you spot me?" and "You need a sweat towel, babe?" or "For the love of all the things holy, take the dumbbell off of my foot!"

When we decided to join a gym, our first decision was, understandably, which gym to choose. Actually, we didn’t need to pick a particular location so much as we needed to pick a style of gym. Many of you didn’t know that there are two distinct styles of gyms.

The first style appeals to the following groups of people: (1) Men who can lift bulldozers, (2) women whose bodies were clearly created in a laboratory and (3) people who are there to look at #1 and #2. Many people don’t actually go there to work out. Oh, sure, they may take a few turns on a rowing machine or something, but lots of them are merely modeling their spandex for the other laboratory created individuals.

I am not in the demographic market for this style of gym. For one thing, I’m married, and that right there takes the fun out of staring at an aerobics instructor while your eyes bug out like cartoon character’s. (By "takes the fun out" I mean "guarantees a spot on the couch that night.")

Second, I have a real problem being around guys who like to work out that much. I just really wonder what they’re trying to get that big. Let’s just suppose they are bulking up like that so that they can see if, just out of curiosity, they could pull someone’s head off of his torso. Frankly, I’d rather not be a candidate in that little test of strength.

So, we opted for the gym style 2, which is much more laid back atmosphere. The people at Gym Style 2 appeals to an entirely different set of people: (1) people who are simply working out to get healthier and fitter and (2) people like me, who are intimidated by Gym Style 1 and who should no more wear a spandex outfit than they should work out dressed solely in gauze.

Prior to working out, we had to go for our evaluations, a serious of grueling deprogramming sessions where your will is broken and your memory is changed, all the while...oh, wait. That was The Manchurian Candidate. Our evaluation just consisted of being weighed and stuff, at which point we were given our daily work-out routine. I was expecting something along the lines of "Get off the couch once in a while, you bum, and remember that beer is not on the four food groups. It’s not even food, for crying out loud. No wonder you can’t walk up stairs without getting winded."

Instead, I was given a step-by-step guide that showed me all of the machines I would be using, how many reps to do, (Editor’s note: "Reps"? Who is he, Lou Ferrigno all of the sudden?), and, most importantly, how to operate the machines, lest I get the drawstring of gym shorts caught in the chest press machine and end up dangling by my waist five feet off the floor. Again.

One of the main concerns my wife and I had was the whole not being a quitter thing. That was one of the reasons we joined together. No, not for moral support. Instead, for ruthless, vindictive ridicule to the first one who drops. (In case you don’t know, my wife and I are just a teensy bit competitive. If you are ever invited over to our house for a game of anything, kill off a relative so you will have to go to a funeral, lest you be hit in the head with flying Scrabble tiles. Trust me, you may miss Aunt Flo, but it will be worth it in the long run.) Another measure we put in place to ensure our continued use of the gym was signing a year’s contract. If my money’s going somewhere, I want to be there to enjoy it. I may quit working out, but you better believe I will at least go loiter there for the next year.

So here I am, a week into the routine. I am sore, but that is expected, seeing as how over the last few years, I have had all of the physical activity of Marlon Brando. But every day that I work out, the muscles get a little more used to it, and the pain subsides a little bit. Granted, it’s a very little bit, but people keep telling me it will get better. I sure hope so. And I hope it’s soon, because I’m looking forward to really toning up and getting in shape. For one thing, I can’t wait to put that spandex outfit to good use.