Let’s Get Physical Ladies or The Truth About Gym Eye Candy

To quote David Lee Roth in Ice Cream Man, I'm dedicating one to the ladies.  Right about now, those of you who made a serious New Year's Resolution to get to the gym are in the midst of your first full week. This means you have discovered the joys of simultaneously cursing your maker of choice for creating the agonizing phrase "physical fitness" while praying to said maker to get you through another 20 minutes on resistance level  5.  You’ve also come to realize that the fickle finger of fate always seems to poke a spec of dirt, lint, or eyelash into your eyeball right as you reach the midpoint of said exertion, thus causing you to convulsively blink in a manner reminiscent of Elizabeth Berkley’s sex scene in Showgirls . If you have indeed reached this point, congratulations! It’s now high time to prepare you for the next task in your personal road to better health:  analyzing your male gym rats. 

Let's get Carrie Bradshaw about this shall we?  A good portion of you jumped into this odyssey of physicality because you wanted to look better in order to get laid.  The rest of you entered into this out of a medicinal need to improve your interior well being…with an ulterior motive of wanting to look better in order to get laid.  As with all situations involving intercourse without procreative intentions, the attainment of carnal pleasure via calisthenics is littered with bad decisions borne out of failing to recognize the meaning behind non speaking cues.  Allow this veteran of the gym wars to give you some simple tips to adhere to:

1.       Any man who continuously grunts in a manner reminiscent of Chewbacca begging Han Solo not to use his blaster in the trash compactor will do the exact same thing while he is atop you, pumping away like gas hurtling toward an empty tank you are no longer certain you want filled.  Believe me when I say that you do not have the mental toughness to overcome this no matter how vividly you imagine yourself in the middle of a Brad Pitt-Johnny Depp sandwich.

2.       Any man who has the upper body of Adonis attached to two toothpicks attempting to disguise themselves as legs will have a penis that makes your pocket rocket look like a Big Gulp container.  Several female friends have confided this fact to me over the years and attempts to prove me wrong will leave you as unsatisfied as half the Lost disciples after their series finale. 

3.       Any man who wears a tank top with straps that can double as dental floss has the intellectual capacity of a young Forrest Gump.  Ditto any man who wears a weight belt. You can ravage their rippling muscles all you want, but after sharing a meal you will feel like my wife Charger Gal each January after her beloved San Diego Chargers end their football season:  I wasted my energy on this????

4.       Any man who looks at himself flexing after every set he completes will never care about you, never appreciate you; it is entirely possible he will not even know your name.  The only name he will ever shout out in the heat of the moment is his own.  GOD doesn't even have a prayer of escaping his lips during climax. 

5.       Any man who over breathes in the steam room like Luka Brasi being garroted or drinks coffee during his work out is highly likely to be equipped with blood vessels so constricted there’s a fairly decent chance he will literally screw himself to death.  Unless you have a burning desire to be a black window, I’d steer clear.  (Should your sexual proclivities run dark, I suggest the asphyxiation route – same danger/pleasure combo, far less potential for body count).

6.       Any man who feels compelled to let every patron in the workout area know his feelings about the sport highlight before him will never feel for you under any circumstances what he does for Tom Brady and Brett Favre.  This is not a comment on his sexuality, but rather his inability to put things in their proper perspective.  This will never change -- not even if you are blessed with the oral copulation skills of a first ballot hall of fame pornographic actress.

         Live fast and true to these guidelines ladies and you could find yourself ending up with Mr. Right and if not…..ah screw it, just find Mr. Right Now.  It’s what everybody else does at the damn gym!

Like what you read?  Sign up to follow the blog.

Hit me up on Twitter:  @mrc_truedat

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head or Get Out Of The Rain You Fool

               I like to work out during my lunch hour.  It’s a great way to break up the day and serves to allow me to release the aggression I might otherwise utilize to commit a multitude of felonies and misdemeanors against my co-workers.  Now I know everybody has their cross to bear with regard to nimrod co-workers, but I work for the state of California.  Let me put in this way:  During Watergate, Deep Throat said to Bob Woodward “The truth is these aren’t very bright guys and things got out of hand.”  I yearn for the day where my co-workers are only incompetent enough to commit Watergate levels of ineptitude.

                I’m vigilant about my workout.  Much like the US Mail, neither rain nor sleet nor snow shall keep me from smashing plates and performing cardio to a point where I breathe in a manner usually reserved for phone sex operators or bad Darth Vader impersonations.  But living in Southern California tends to negate the snow and sleet options, thus my only potential foe in making the 7 minute walk from my job to the local 24 Hour Fitness is rain…well rain and the always looming potential of cleaning up messes made by co-workers who quite possibly couldn’t spell cat if you spotted them the C and the T…and today, the clouds they be a forming.

                We all tell ourselves things we know not to be true in the name of moving ahead with what it is we really want to do.  We call these white lies rationalizations.  Jeff Goldblum theorizes in The Big Chill that rationalizations are more important than sex.   When one of his friends’ scoffs at anything being more important than sex, Goldblum states matter of factly: “Ever gone a week without a rationalization?”  As I grip my gym bag and look out at the clouds that could only be described as nimbus, I rationalize to myself “I can make it through the workout and get back before the rain starts.”  I change in the locker room at my job and head out.  The clouds are dark.  The vibe is ominous.  But my determination (or stupidity siphoned from my co-workers) is carrying me through.

                I reach the gym bone dry.  Halfway home.  I get through my workout, huffing and puffing like I transformed into a wolf about to blow some houses down and walk outside.  Somebody cue Supertramp because It’s Raining Again.  HARD.  I take a moment to remove the middle finger shoved up my ass by the Gods of Rationalization and consider how to proceed.  I can’t stay because I do have to go back to work.  I can’t run because my body is crying out that it gave at the office.  At this point, a thought occurs to me:  “My clothes are already half wet from sweat anyway.  I’ll just walk.  It’s only water.”  (Yes, after just playing the role of a proctology patient, I’m rationalizing again.  Why do you ask?).

                I begin to walk.  The rain immediately drenches me, but because I have my trusty Muhammad Ali hat on, it’s not so terrible.  It’s almost peaceful.  That’s when the Gods of Rationalization peek in and incredulously say “Really?”  They announce this in the form of a long, booming roar of thunder that is followed by raising the intensity of the rain to a level that would make Noah look out and proclaim “No arking today.”  I am right in the middle of my walk back and I think to myself what movie would best capture my plight?  Andy raising his hands to the heavens in Shawshank?  Lt. Dan raising his fists in ire in Forrest Gump?  Carl the greenskeeper observing that he doesn’t think the heavy stuff’s coming down for a while yet in Caddyshack? This is where rationalization is kicked to the curb by rational as my mind firmly states “Who cares?  Get the eff out of the rain!”

                I double time it back to work and walk past a few co-workers who are stunned by my drenched attire before I return to the safety of the men’s locker room and a piping hot shower.   They can’t imagine someone would endure a liquid pelting in the name of mental and physical health, but it doesn’t matter to me.  Know why?

Because I’m the smart one at my job.

Hit me up on twitter:  @mrc_truedat