One of the promises I made to myself in January was to commit to a twelve week fitness and diet regime that kicked off about four weeks ago. Why? Well, let’s just say I was expanding and I don’t earn enough money to replace my whole wardrobe. I needed to up my game.
Besides, gaining weight is not all my fault. I blame Christmas. And the holidays. And the heaps of easy accessible, great food. And the wine! Yes, I know it’s blasphemy, but I blame the gods of red wine too! Then there’s the fact that I’m forty-ONE, which is not doing me any favours. Everyone knows that when middle-age walks through the front door, metabolism moves out. And then you’re stuck with that unpleasant, strange roommate whom you should, but don’t, recognise.
What makes this promise to myself difficult to keep is the fact that I’m periodically stuck in a cylindrical tube with wings, decorated with chairs and faked into comfort by a small television screen and free booze. In order to not disappoint my subconscious, I decided that I’ll under commit and overperform. This tactic implies I opted to train for three days a week, even though the program I chose, requires five. For most weeks I’m getting to five days, which makes me feel accomplished and amazing, like one of those #selfie taking muscled
deuchebags bad-asses on Instagram.
Whilst in Dubai recently, I woke up on day one without the soul-screeching sound of an alarm. The words I used in the sentence cannot convey the true bliss of that moment. As I travel All By Myself, (and sorry if I just planted the Celine Dion song in your ear) I do not have the list of things I normally have to do as a parent/husband/handyman/fitness wannabe. I am the King of my Time. As long as I stick to my meetings, I don’t have to own up to anyone about what I choose, or more importantly, choose NOT to do.
I decided to go for a training session in the afternoon because I don’t have a life without the wife. I sloth-ed my way to the fitness centre of the hotel, for these pretentious people don’t call it a gym. It was fairly big and modern, especially when comparing it to the slum I train in at home. The problem was, I didn’t recognise half of the machines in the room. They were all foreign to me. *ta-doosh!* It was chest day and I managed to find NOT one single machine or torture device that would agonize my little pecs into bigger ones.
I was relieved when I saw a dumb bell rack. For I know my dumb bells, especially being the only dumb bell for volunteering exercise whilst the rest of the ex-pats are sitting in the sun, drinking beer. The gym, I meant fitness centre, has a window looking out on a beach bar. What kind of twisted sicko does it take to design something like that? Most probably a fat one.
I paced myself and strolled across the gym with several of the younger studs admiring my middle-age-not-so-ripped-covered body. I finally reached the rack, only to find the dumbbells marked in pounds… Shit. This couldn’t get any better.
I needed to hide the idiot inside, so I started small. I also didn’t want to risk injury, as my dignity was already on shaky ground. After my first set I realised I was playing in the kiddies corner, so I migrated to some bigger ones. I felt extremely proud as I pushed and curled through a few more sets with the heavy weights. My pride finally took a dive into an abyss of failure, when a ripped lady arrived next to me and started her sets with the same weights as the ones I was busy with. Who knew pounds are twice as heavy as kilograms?
Fortunately, some of the other guys started to occupy the machines and I could identify the ones that should be used to grow my tits. Or at least prevent them from turning into moobs (short for man-boobs). I carefully placed my not-so-heavy-as-I-though-it-was dumb bells back on the rack and made my way to the machines. Rather quickly. The redness in my face was probably due to my strenuous exercise.
Before you laugh, just remember, at least I
did tried something. And I even went back. Twice.