Lesson I: Those lessons we learn as children can be valuable also when we believe that we are no longer children.
Remember all the books we used to read – or, to be truthful: look at the pictures in – as children?
For instance, the “Where’s Waldo” series?. They propagated the notion that there will always be, behind every topsy-turvy situation, a little bit of “meaning” — embodied in the fact that there was somehow, somewhere always a guy wearing a striped shirt.
Of course, little did we know at the time that this immensely simplified notion would turn out to be wildly correct, though after visiting the fitness studio for the umpteenth time, I can definitely state that Waldo does not wear a striped shirt. Instead, the real Waldo is an older, oriental-looking man with a beard much like the one I am currently touting, with short black pants and a gray shirt, whose exentric body movements automatically identify him as being present each and every time I visit the gym – whether he is powerwalking out of the dressing room, preparing to mount a “Milon Circle” machine (one of those contraptions with the bizzarre, proturding antaenne that are meant to be pumped in a rythmic fashion in a fusion of man and machine so perfectly ridiculous that I can only but refrain from indulging); or at the end, popping up at the automatic doors with his eerie smile, just as I am about to sneak out hoping not to have spotted him, just once.
Lesson II: Cute, innocent-looking girls prefer macho supermen.
Okay, so maybe some of you took less time than I did to figure this one out. I for one, grew up believing those “love is…
” caricatures, where the boy and the girl are roughly of the same size, or at least of the same size category
Alas, the cruel reality of the gym teaches us otherwise. Witness Mary and the Incredible Hulk, a staple presence at the freeweight section almost as omnipresent as Waldo.
I remember the first time I saw this duo in action, in essence a tragedy (at least from my perspective) in three acts:
I go to the free weights section, chest-press 2*10kg+the bar (!), and am instantly proud of this small lift for man, giant-ass lift for someone who is essentially a boy. Enter cute blonde girl, who proceeds to said freeweight session, notices and endorses the 2*10kg+the bar with a smile thrown in my direction & I wonder whether I need to revise my preconception that I never have the luck to meet and date hot chicks from gyms.
Act 1: The tragedy takes its course
Enter giant steroid animal, who proceeds to add, to my 2*10kg, several*10kg (+the bar), upon which he receives a wonderful cooing pat from the above cute blonde. This incredible concentration of testosterone and muscle tissue now proceeds to be as rough with those poor weights as those weights are usually rough with poor me. His grunting is accompanied by general condolences ushered by said blonde chick.
Act 2: the sweaty catharsis
The WTF!8???!*20kg are now removed from the bar, and the giant belt girdling our Adonis is unlatched with the same ceremony as if it were some heavy weight boxing title. Our meat monster then proceeds to help said cute chick lift the bar several times, probably some sinister allusion to the fact that my 2*10 kg was something pretty close to what his girlfriend lifts.
The drama closes with the two kissing, just to make her presumable conviction most blatantly obvious to me: the fact that her “partner” could snap someone like me in two goes some ways to addressing her need for that feeling of security she’s seeking in an exciting and fulfilling relationship.