Afrojet Workout Plan
Currently: sore, broken, damaged, exhausted, abused.
The sedentary nature of computer jobs and the upcoming long winter months have prompted the misses and I to join our local health club. It could turn out to be our biggest mistake.
Tuesday night was the first trip to the gym. It was to be our introduction (or indoctrination). We had appointments with separate trainers with the intent of getting a light orientation and hopefully a little guidance on achieving our ‘fitness goals’. Admittedly, I had set the bar pretty low. My fitness goals were: 1) rock various and colorful adidas pant/shoe combinations, 2) rock the new iPod ‘gym’ mix I had created while plundering the old speed metal archives (D.R.I., Slayer, Motorhead) and, 3) drink lots of Gatorade whilst maneuvering free weights and nautilus dojiggery. A simple plan really – something to get the heart rate going a bit. My personal trainer for the night, who I must refer to as ‘Business’ had an altogether different idea and approach. If my fitness goal for myself was something just above Homer Simpson status, Business’ goal was to build me into a Greek war hero a la Homer’s The Iliad. In one fucking night no less.
Business is the kind of guy who is either ‘on’ or fucking ‘off’. No granularity of purpose. I said I hadn’t worked out in at least ten years and was looking for a light workout to get the heart rate up a bit. But as many times as I reiterated this fact all he heard was “I want to be huge bitch. I want to run triathlons by April! I want you to transform me into Atlas. Spare my body nothing.”
And so it was…boot camp. Business had me running, squatting, lunging, throwing heavy balls, squatting while throwing heavy balls. There was heavy ball jumping, heavy ball oblique twisting, more running, jump-squatting, more heavy ball throwing, lower back squatting, running (now with bigger strides), more fucking heavy ball bending. All the while pleading, like the pussy that I am, that this was not the routine that I was really thinking I would be carrying forward in the coming months. All the while trying to straighten out in my head why I was paying Business to beat the holy crap out of me. And the poor iPod, all those good songs, tucked away – abandoned in my gym bag. I was pissed.
Finally the last straw. I’m completely out of breath. The smoking and boozing that my body enjoys now revolting and rising in protest. “What the fuck are you doing?” my lungs scream. I’m dizzy and I feel faint and I think I’m going to blow chunks at any minute. Business has brought out some kind of wicked big disc diaphragm that he wants me to balance on while doing arm curls. Fuck this. Through my dizziness it might as well have been an Iron Maiden. My legs are warm putty. I can’t even stand a second on the damn diaphragm. I’m going to hurl. I call time-out, tell Business ‘game over’, thanks for playing – we’re done here. Go away.
The misses fairs a little better as her trainer seems to actually listen a bit to her needs and goals. I’m collapsed in a puddle of my own sauces. I need a cigarette.
A day has passed and I can still barely move. My groining seems to have faired the worst. I can’t squat to sit down. I merely fall down. But now that the Business has been relieved of his trainer duty I will make it back into the gym tonight and start my right and proper routine. The misses has another appointment with her trainer this evening. Me, I’m going to sit back on the exercise bike tonight (set on the the lowest setting) and watch the misses get worked.
