Workout Afterglow

In 1996 I was considered by most kids in my sixth grade class as 'one of the most athletic guys.' I had a diamond-cutting six pack, calves the size of tree trunks, and pecs that could, if flexed, hold a quarter in between them.

By my graduating year in 2003 I still felt pretty good about myself in terms of my physical shape. My muscles felt leaner, my physique had strengthened with more rigorous workouts, and my metabolism had skyrocketed through the roof.

But, as with most things, youth gets replaced by experience, and the lines that once reflected the ripping cuts in my arms have since then slid further south, turning into mere folds in the skin that permanently flop over each other, flexed or not. I've succumbed to the daily routine that people call 'a rut': shuffling my feet this way and that, the days seemingly blurring together in a confusing weave of deadlines at work and families that need constant maintenance. I've even begun to look at the young kids walking around public arenas and wonder why they're so loud.

I'm turning 24 in less than a week.

It seems as though not only did I graduate college, but since that time in my life, I've graduated early into the next portion of my life: Getting old, fat, and lazy.

Strange questions start to fill my mind nowadays. Questions like: Where did the courage of youth go? When did the social pressures stop me from trying harder? Did I peak in college and not know it?

Though I look back at my past with fondness, I realize that there is one constant variable that has always, and will always, keep my heart racing towards doing better for myself: Girls.

Which is why, for some God-awful reason, I convinced myself that I should probably get back into working out again. I've got an awesome deal membership with 24-Hour Fitness ($20 a year to renew), but rarely do I use it. Instead, I fooled myself into thinking that I could get just as good a workout at home as I would at the gym, so I bought home equipment. Little did I know that the distractions at home (TV, free food, warm bed, internet) were far more consequential than those at the gym (grunting men, waiting for machines, hot girls doing squats).

A couple hundred wasted dollars later, I let those things collect dust in my room, alongside my cassette tapes and walkman, waiting until they too, become obsolete. That's when I ran into an old friend from high school. She had been doing well for herself: looking good, feeling good, making money. So, naturally, we got to talking about the good ol' days back in high school, which led to who had gotten fat since then, which inevitably moved into the 'let's go work out together' conversation.

Fantastic.

Today, I woke up with sores all over my body, and I have to go back with her there in half an hour.

As I sigh with each passing minute, dreading the heavy things they call 'weights' at the gym, I must make a point to keep my eyes forward. Because when all is said and done, the soreness is just a subtle reminder that I am that much closer to making a girl want to jump my bones.

Then again, I've been able to do that without the soreness before. So tell me... why the hell am I going to the gym again?


...Oh yeah, the hot girls doing squats. I think I need to say hi to them tonight.