The day comes, and youâre all like, fuck yeah, Iâm gonna start working out. And it takes awhile, it always kinda does at first, youâre just kinda pissin along, you do a ton of cardio and maybe play with some of the machines. Like testing the waters, you know? Thatâs how it starts. You donât even know it yet, but there you are, on the elliptical, or the treadmill or whatever, and you come up for air sorta. You kinda shake your head from side to side and refocus on the digital numbers in front of you. One is counting down, one is counting up. Youâre halfway to halfway there, and youâre so out of breath, and you keep going, pumping, pushing, and thereâs no real reason to stop going, so you just keep going.Â
The months pass like that. Sure, from time to time, you get a little frustrated. You ask yourself, why do I keep going to the gym? But thereâs no answer. There isnât even really a question. Itâs like shouting into the wind. Your voice gets ripped away from you. It might be a little tiny hiccup of doubt, but thereâs a louder, gusting roar going on inside of you. Something is building. You start getting a little, oh, whatâs the word, obsessed. Old habits are shedding like dead skin. It isnât huge, not like those fantasy stories you read. Itâs a little bit at a time. Little flickers of thought that lick their way into your head without your even really stopping to notice them. Itâs like seeing something move out of the corner of your eye as you whiz by on a freeway. Was it real? Was it really there? Thereâs no way to go back and check to see if it was, because youâre hurtling forward, youâre moving so fast, thereâs no way you can slam on the brakes. You actually end up hitting the gas. You lunge forward.Â
Youâre watching a game on TV. Could be streaming it, could be at a bar, could be on your TV, whatever. Itâs gonna happen - sports is everywhere, you canât really escape it. It trends on Facebook. You click the hashtag, the link, idly scroll through. You donât realize that you have been doing this for some time now, that you seem to continually expose yourself to sports. You see logos of teams more often than you used to - are more people wearing sports swag, or are you just noticing it now? - but it doesnât matter, itâs just sort of there, out of the corner of your eye. You wouldnât say that itâs an obsession, not really. Not yet. Well, maybe a little.Â
And then thereâs the whole world of the Internet spread out in front of you, a buffet of information. You can choose what goes on your plate. You look at your bookmarks and youâre genuinely surprised how many of them have the word Bodybuilding or Muscle or Nutrition in the titles. You donât remember bookmarking those, saving those links on Facebook. Thereâs your watch list, on eBay, and you seem to be constantly getting notifications on your
- bling -
phone, because another tank-top or sleeveless t-shirt or basketball shorts is ending, and you just gotta cop that shit, you can see yourself wearing it, wearing it to the gym again in the not-too-distant future, and you honestly donât know what to say when you get a package in the mail like, every day or some shit, and your roommate is like, yo, what the heck are all these packages youâre getting lately? Thereâs no way to make up a story, and man, lying about it, coming up with something, just seems so hard, your brain is really fried from the last workout, and you just shrug and say âGym clothes, broâ and oh my god you just flexed your arm in front of him. Itâs like time stands still, like everything is frozen, even you, and then you drop your arm and laugh a little, and he laughs too, and everything swells into a kaleidoscope of colors in front of your eyes, something like a spiral has been laid over everything you see. âGotta show off my gains, right?â And itâs half-a-joke, half not-a-joke, and he shrugs too, and laughs easily, says something about how youâre a real meathead, and itâs half-a-joke, half not-a-joke. And heâs telling you about this book heâs reading, and how he knows youâre gonna be super into it, because itâs meta-post something and
- bling -
Your phone is going off in your pocket, and you ignore it at first, youâre really trying to pay attention to your roommate, and you find yourself kinda nodding, and saying âyeahâ a lot, but not really like, connecting, you know, to what heâs saying. And your phone just keeps going off, and youâre going crazy with distraction, until finally he can tell youâre not paying attention and goes into his room and you dig out your phone and scramble to see what it is.
Itâs a chat dialog. Someone with a ridiculous name, actually, not even a name, a number. Like theyâre on a team or something, and a part of you is kind of intrigued.
And thereâs a game on the TV, and youâre watching it, and youâre lifting a 15-pounder handweight while staring at the screen. Itâs not like you know why, but it kinda makes sense to be doing that. Thereâs a mirror nearby too, and you keep looking at yourself, watching the muscle grow and move and shift underneath your skin. And before you know it, youâre back at the gym. And then youâre home again, mixing up your first protein shake that you got the protein from that supp center, that one that sells the tanks you see everyone at the gym wearing all the time. You might get one of those one day, you think to yourself. You should, itâs like repping, and you wanna rep your supp center, you want people to know where you get your supps. Right? Of course.Â
When you think about it, itâs really kinda weird, it doesnât make sense. The day came, you said you were gonna start lifting, working out, going to the gym. You told everyone. You posted about it on Facebook. You donât remember that you did that, but you did, and you got all these likes, and people are all like, good for you, and how exciting, and keep it up. Soon enough, that turns into wow, you look good and have you been working out and youâre flexing for people you know - at first, privately, secretly, just to show your friends your work - but then, more and more, in public. You stretch your arms over your head when youâre tired, showing off your triceps. Showing off your biceps. You find excuses to stretch out where people can see. You wear shorts even when itâs cold. You want people to see your legs, your calves, your quads. The day came, and you did it, you started doing it, you never looked back. You canât hit the brakes, youâre going too fast. And sometimes you think about it, you think, why did I make this choice, why did my life change so radically and
- bling -
You look at your phone, and it could be anything. Someone commenting on your most recent profile pic on Facebook, your friend #37 just chatting about his leg day at the gym, showing you pics of his quads, the teardrop and the outer sweep starting to really show through, it could be another item of gear ending on eBay that you just have to have. What were you thinking about? Something. Itâs hard to recall. Must not have been that important. What is important? Well, itâs getting late in the evening. Gotta get that protein. Gotta get to bed. Gotta rest up for the gym tomorrow. Leg day, and you wanna be able to show #37 just how hard you worked because you want your own number someday, donât you? Sure you do. Itâll come to you. One of these days, youâll just remember that you have a number in mind for yourself.Â
And then the day comes - you look at the last selfie you took, the dumb one, the one of you with the blank eyes and the big fuckin muscles and well, yeah, youâre shirtless, youâre almost always shirtless at home now, and youâre pretending like youâre surprised, surprised that you got so big, surprised that all the hard work you did is paying off, surprised that you canât remember your life before, and just for a second, something out of the corner of your eye flickers, and you almost turn your head to look at it, but then you press down on the gas, you leap forward, you lunge ahead, you pick up the weights, you grunt, you sweat, you grow. And what, you ask yourself, is more satisfying than that?
The answer comes loudly, in a rush, like a crowd standing on its feet to cheer: nothing. Nothing is more satisfying than that. And you answer yourself, you grunt to yourself, under your breath:
Fuck yeah.
