I hate you. I despise you. I loathe you. You’re like a relationship that ended when I was 25, but you couldn’t find anyone else to move in with and I felt sorry for you. So, you’ve stuck around for the past seven years. Sure, you do some things around the house and occasionally, in desperation, we may hook up, but you aren’t into me anymore. I, on the other hand, am afraid to let you go.
I am reminded of you everywhere I go. I see you in the bathroom mirror. I see you in fitness magazines and in all those shirtless photos that are beginning to hijack my Instagram feed. I see you’ve been getting around too. You were always a little slutty. I see you being kinder to others. I hear you whispering in my ear, “Miss me?” Well, of course I do, but you are a temptress to me and I know it. It is over. You killed our relationship and there is nothing I can do about it.
Where the hell did you come from? Why do you keep making me buy bigger jeans, ill-fitting shirts and less than flattering underwear? Are you trying to break the bank here? Well, you should know, I am an underpaid nonprofit employee. I can’t keep buying new sizes every season and pushing the smaller ones to the back of my closet. So, maybe stop! You’re being a pain.
Also, let’s talk about your name. I hate it. I hate it, because I love muffins, cakes, ice cream, donuts, pasta, soda… I digress. I hate your name, because it isn’t flattering. Whoever branded you should go back to the drawing board. I have some ideas to get you started: Cancer Curing Handles, The Fountain of Youthfulness, and Emergency Latches. Just remember there are bad ideas, but please focus on something positive. The delicious bits that over flow from a muffin tin was a noble effort, because we all know that the best part of the muffin is the top; the rest is garbage. What were we talking about?
Dearest Light Exercising,
Fine, I will go to the effing gym, but don’t think for a second I am going to enjoy it. Being a man of routines and joy, I will try my hardest to make the best of it. I will run on your treadmills and I will create cycles for each week to focus on a particular region of my body, but you need to realize something. I hate sweating. It is sticky and it is gross. I don’t wear it around the gym like a badge of honor. I wear it around the gym like a disheveled man who has just emerged from the nearest garbage heap or the Black Lagoon.
You are a beach. I would use stronger language, but my mother reads this thing. Being a citizen of the Great Pacific Northwest, my time on you is limited. Usually, when I want to partake in your splendor, I must head south to Los Angeles. Your beaches are filled with beautiful people who don’t mind sweating. I see you there riding your bike, rollerblading, running, doing pushups for no reason. I see you glistening in the sun. And I know you see me; pasty white, skinny fat, muffin-topped and undefined. Yeah, your health and commitment is making me feel bad. Jerk! And don’t even get me started on the inconsiderate people of Rio!
Dearest Gym Members,
Sorry gym, you are getting addressed twice. I have no issue with your cathedral type setting to physicality. I love the options, machines, and miles of free weights. I don’t mind your awful selection of EDM and remixed songs. I do hate the people who worship there, though. I hate their orgasmic grunting. I hate that they have never heard of sleeves. I hate they are twice my size when it comes to muscles, but all they seem to do is walk around for hours and shoot the breeze with other muscle bound friends. I hate their judging eyes, as I work as hard as I possibly can. I hate the 19,000 sets they do on every machine. I hate the sweat they leave behind on mats. I hate sweat. I especially hate their sweat. It feels like a viper’s venom when it comes in contact with my skin. I hate those who come to the gym and are better at this than me, but like a trustworthy dog who doesn’t know he is being abused, I will be back this afternoon for another round of punishment. See you then.
Be good to each other,