Pumping Irony
Dec. 11th, 2004 04:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldSisyphus was the world's first weightlifter. In Greek myth, he is famously condemned to push a large rock up a hill in the underworld for eternity, only to have it roll back down the hill every single time. It is a story of perpetual suffering, pain and frustration. It suggests a cruel, torturous existence devoid of pleasure. It is a nightmare with no end.
That's pretty much how I feel about exercise, too.
That is, unless you're talking about sports. I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to account for my sports hobbies as "exercise." Volleyball involves an awful lot of standing around and watching the ball go back and forth. And I could probably achieve the same amount of aerobic activity watching softball as I do playing it. For me, the most exhausting aspect of softball is trying to convince the other 17 people to participate. Football, though, I'm pretty sure is exercise. I know this because each day after I play, I am so sore from my hips to my feet that I walk as though I have a bear trap in my pants.
For real by-the-book exercise, I go to the gym three days a week. Usually this entails a half-hour on the stationary bike, 15 minutes of sit-ups, 20 minutes of circuit training and 30 minutes on the treadmill with free weights. About 10 minutes of interstitial time is spent stretching, dutifully wiping down the equipment and trying to look at girls without them noticing.
Incidentally, the gym is a very weird place to do the mating dance. On the one hand, women are usually wearing minimal clothing that is frequently tight and at least slightly moist. For your average shallow American man, it does not take a lot of effort to imagine those women exerting themselves in a more romantic fashion. (Preferably, though, without the walkman and the Reader's Digest.) Plus, if a woman is at the gym in the first place, it is likely that she possesses the muscle tone and stamina so crucial for extremely successful mating.
Nevertheless, there are a number of obstacles to effective flirting, not the least of which is the sweat factor. While women always smell like shampoo, no matter what, guy perspiration can overpower the olfactory senses like the U.S. Marines' siege on Grenada. In the abstract, a sweaty man might seem attractive and sexy – like Sylvester Stallone or Bruce Willis on your movie screen, glistening with masculinity – but people forget that moviemakers are able to remove the visible stink fumes during post-production.
And nobody looks friendly when they're working out. There are no smiles, no laughs, no winks. Everyone's face is either frozen in a vacant trance-like stare or contorted into a twitchy grimace. Nobody looks like they're having any fun. If it were fun, it would not be exercise. And it is impossible to appear confident and charming when you appear to be constipated.
Hitting on a girl in the gym also requires careful negotiation of the surrounding apparatus. In one instance from my own personal archives, I approached a woman in the fitness center of my old apartment building and was mildly rebuffed. ("Boyfriend.") Upon my exit, however, the cord between my mp3 player and my headphones caught on a piece of nearby equipment, yanking the mp3 player off of my belt loop and sending it skittering across the floor and underneath an innocent exercise bicyclist. Sensing this snafu, I spun around to see the headphone jack snapping back into my face, sending me off-balance and backwards over a weightlifting bench. It took approximately three seconds for me to become the biggest putz in Arlington Overlook Fitness Room history. I'm pretty sure they have a plaque there now.
Since then I have found it best to spend my time in the gym focusing on the major, non-reproductive muscle groups. Gym exercise is an individual activity anyway, mandating focus, concentration, and loud music blaring in your ears so you don't think about the truly boring task you are performing.
Sports, however, can be a great way to meet women, especially if you want to meet women who are there with their boyfriends. Guys always outnumber the gals in sports leagues, and on the rare occasion that a single woman is around, the single guys on the team lock in on these girls and hover incessantly like senior citizens at the Sizzler Early Bird Buffet.
Some people might point out that sports offers the opportunity for a guy to impress women by turning a dazzling play in the field or a demonstration of strength or skill. But it has been my experience that women do not appreciate these game-turning moments as much as guys would like to think they do. For instance, if a guy went out to close the game in the ninth inning with a sucking chest wound, a woman would probably call an ambulance immediately without even considering whether it was the playoffs.
In addition to my weekly regimen at the gym, I've recently begun participating in 5K races around town. Running in these 5K races was initially a first step towards possibly competing in a marathon someday. Since then, I have decided that marathons are insane and if I run about nine 5K races in my life, I can consider myself to have run the slowest marathon in world history.
I mean no offense to marathon runners. I know several of them. In the past I have contributed money – and in one case, even my body – to their efforts. I admire their perseverance and stamina, and many of them demonstrate a level of fervent dedication usually reserved for Southern Baptists.
It seems pretty obvious to me, though, that the human body was not built for the marathon. There is no activity or circumstance in human history that would require an upright mammal to run 26 miles at once. If anything, the human body evolved for quick bursts of speed, so as to escape wild boars or jealous husbands. Here's a handy rule that I live by: if something threatens to make your nipples bleed, don't do it.
I don't particularly like biking, either, since it tends to put such a strain on the groin region. But it is at least three times as efficient as running and allows you to wear much sexier shorts. For a while I enjoyed using the rowing (or "erg") machine, but I found that the motion of the seat, combined with my particular anatomy, rendered continuous usage extremely uncomfortable with respect to my delicate regions. Rather than switch to briefs over boxers, I opted to get out of the boat. (Astute readers will notice a theme, here.)
While my six weekly hours at the gym are always the worst six hours of my week, my Sunday football game or my Thursday softball game are always the best part of my week. And I think it's because sports more closely approximates life. There are winners and losers; there are rules, strategies and assignments; errors, fouls and fumbles. There is teamwork.
What makes playing sports different and better than just living life, though, is that everything is compressed. Each moment of the game, not only do I have greater control over the ultimate outcome, but I also have the perspective that tells me it's all going to be all right no matter what the score is. It's just a game. It's just life.
And on the field, I know what's going on. I know the rules. I can see the cause and anticipate the effect. It all makes sense to me. And then the game ends, and I have to figure out how I'm getting home.
It's too fun to be exercise. So it must be what I exercise for.
That's pretty much how I feel about exercise, too.
That is, unless you're talking about sports. I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to account for my sports hobbies as "exercise." Volleyball involves an awful lot of standing around and watching the ball go back and forth. And I could probably achieve the same amount of aerobic activity watching softball as I do playing it. For me, the most exhausting aspect of softball is trying to convince the other 17 people to participate. Football, though, I'm pretty sure is exercise. I know this because each day after I play, I am so sore from my hips to my feet that I walk as though I have a bear trap in my pants.
For real by-the-book exercise, I go to the gym three days a week. Usually this entails a half-hour on the stationary bike, 15 minutes of sit-ups, 20 minutes of circuit training and 30 minutes on the treadmill with free weights. About 10 minutes of interstitial time is spent stretching, dutifully wiping down the equipment and trying to look at girls without them noticing.
Incidentally, the gym is a very weird place to do the mating dance. On the one hand, women are usually wearing minimal clothing that is frequently tight and at least slightly moist. For your average shallow American man, it does not take a lot of effort to imagine those women exerting themselves in a more romantic fashion. (Preferably, though, without the walkman and the Reader's Digest.) Plus, if a woman is at the gym in the first place, it is likely that she possesses the muscle tone and stamina so crucial for extremely successful mating.
Nevertheless, there are a number of obstacles to effective flirting, not the least of which is the sweat factor. While women always smell like shampoo, no matter what, guy perspiration can overpower the olfactory senses like the U.S. Marines' siege on Grenada. In the abstract, a sweaty man might seem attractive and sexy – like Sylvester Stallone or Bruce Willis on your movie screen, glistening with masculinity – but people forget that moviemakers are able to remove the visible stink fumes during post-production.
And nobody looks friendly when they're working out. There are no smiles, no laughs, no winks. Everyone's face is either frozen in a vacant trance-like stare or contorted into a twitchy grimace. Nobody looks like they're having any fun. If it were fun, it would not be exercise. And it is impossible to appear confident and charming when you appear to be constipated.
Hitting on a girl in the gym also requires careful negotiation of the surrounding apparatus. In one instance from my own personal archives, I approached a woman in the fitness center of my old apartment building and was mildly rebuffed. ("Boyfriend.") Upon my exit, however, the cord between my mp3 player and my headphones caught on a piece of nearby equipment, yanking the mp3 player off of my belt loop and sending it skittering across the floor and underneath an innocent exercise bicyclist. Sensing this snafu, I spun around to see the headphone jack snapping back into my face, sending me off-balance and backwards over a weightlifting bench. It took approximately three seconds for me to become the biggest putz in Arlington Overlook Fitness Room history. I'm pretty sure they have a plaque there now.
Since then I have found it best to spend my time in the gym focusing on the major, non-reproductive muscle groups. Gym exercise is an individual activity anyway, mandating focus, concentration, and loud music blaring in your ears so you don't think about the truly boring task you are performing.
Sports, however, can be a great way to meet women, especially if you want to meet women who are there with their boyfriends. Guys always outnumber the gals in sports leagues, and on the rare occasion that a single woman is around, the single guys on the team lock in on these girls and hover incessantly like senior citizens at the Sizzler Early Bird Buffet.
Some people might point out that sports offers the opportunity for a guy to impress women by turning a dazzling play in the field or a demonstration of strength or skill. But it has been my experience that women do not appreciate these game-turning moments as much as guys would like to think they do. For instance, if a guy went out to close the game in the ninth inning with a sucking chest wound, a woman would probably call an ambulance immediately without even considering whether it was the playoffs.
In addition to my weekly regimen at the gym, I've recently begun participating in 5K races around town. Running in these 5K races was initially a first step towards possibly competing in a marathon someday. Since then, I have decided that marathons are insane and if I run about nine 5K races in my life, I can consider myself to have run the slowest marathon in world history.
I mean no offense to marathon runners. I know several of them. In the past I have contributed money – and in one case, even my body – to their efforts. I admire their perseverance and stamina, and many of them demonstrate a level of fervent dedication usually reserved for Southern Baptists.
It seems pretty obvious to me, though, that the human body was not built for the marathon. There is no activity or circumstance in human history that would require an upright mammal to run 26 miles at once. If anything, the human body evolved for quick bursts of speed, so as to escape wild boars or jealous husbands. Here's a handy rule that I live by: if something threatens to make your nipples bleed, don't do it.
I don't particularly like biking, either, since it tends to put such a strain on the groin region. But it is at least three times as efficient as running and allows you to wear much sexier shorts. For a while I enjoyed using the rowing (or "erg") machine, but I found that the motion of the seat, combined with my particular anatomy, rendered continuous usage extremely uncomfortable with respect to my delicate regions. Rather than switch to briefs over boxers, I opted to get out of the boat. (Astute readers will notice a theme, here.)
While my six weekly hours at the gym are always the worst six hours of my week, my Sunday football game or my Thursday softball game are always the best part of my week. And I think it's because sports more closely approximates life. There are winners and losers; there are rules, strategies and assignments; errors, fouls and fumbles. There is teamwork.
What makes playing sports different and better than just living life, though, is that everything is compressed. Each moment of the game, not only do I have greater control over the ultimate outcome, but I also have the perspective that tells me it's all going to be all right no matter what the score is. It's just a game. It's just life.
And on the field, I know what's going on. I know the rules. I can see the cause and anticipate the effect. It all makes sense to me. And then the game ends, and I have to figure out how I'm getting home.
It's too fun to be exercise. So it must be what I exercise for.
