Enjoying the Ride

I am trying to figure out the exact reason why I am fat. It might have something to do with that pizza I just ate, and those chicken wings, and that cheesy bread. And that other pizza. I guess the science behind the increasing mass of my behind is that when you consume more energy than you burn, none of my pants fit anymore. But I would gladly excercise if it were not for my burning hatred for physical activity compounded by the wretchedness of the fitness club environment. 

I call it the 'fitness club' because 'the gym' doesn't really exist anymore. It doesn't qualify as a gym if there are leather couches, big screen tv's, and a fucking waterfall in the loby. A gym is a barebones room full of heavy things to lift and a jump rope, usually located down a poorly lit alley in a  bad part of town. I for one do not feel comfortable traveling through such areas at night if I am not commiting sexual assaults. 

When I finally hit the work out floor I once again feel unaccepting eyes staring dissapointingly at me. My grade 8 gym shorts and a t-shirt I got out of a case of beer are apperently not the height of fashion in the excercise community. I will return tomorrow with my Under Armour shirt and Lululemon shorts, but for now I shall excercise! 

Fifteen minutes into my exhausting routine I come to a startling conclusion: most around me aren't excercising at all. They just stand by equipment and talk to eachother. Some people just spend an hour walking around trying to casualy see if anyone is looking at them. Others just narcissistically flex infront of the mirrors. One cunt was even on his cell phone.  

After hanging up the phone I decided to engage in some cardiovascular conditioning. Now I used to run six miles, five days a week. So naturally after a hiatus of one year I chose the same distance as a starting point. My first promblem was the 'cardio theater.' People today need constant stimulation and entertainment, so all of the cardio equipment faces a wall with 15 televisions. What ever happened to blankly gazing at a concrete wall while thinking about how good cake tastes? 

So I indiscriminatly choose a treadmill, not paying any attention to the broadcast located directly in my immediate line of sight, and start running. After a few minutes I am reminded of how excruciatingly boring running is and start to watch the television in a vain attempt to seek distraction. God must have been frowning on my fat ass because I had the best seat in the house to view a documentary on Terry Fox. I had to keep running. Watching a man who lost a leg to cancer attempt to run across the country in the effort to raise money, awarness, and hope was heart breaking. I would be such a piece of shit to quit running at any point of show because I was 'tired and sore and didn't want to do it anymore.' So I waited for a commercial break. 

Except no break came. The commercial free two hour long special was agonizing to endure. My legs were shutting down and I couldn't breath. Finally at mile nine I started screaming "fucking die already!" I'm not allowed back there.