Something happen to people who take the plunge into the ocean of healthy living. Besides the fact that most simply drown and get washed up on the beach of fat and failure, some actually learn to stay afloat. The ones who manage to control some kind of satisfying exercise regime that fits nicely into the niche between a coach potato and marathon runner. Other freaks turn into really strong ultra swimmers and they end up as poster children for transformation and the power of the human spirit.
For the few of us who stay afloat, it implies we struggle through a daily sacrifice of sleep, in exchange for sweat and perseverance. Not mentioning stuffing our faces with everything that is far from delicious. Because let’s state the obvious; if it’s worth eating, it’s gonna make you buy a bigger dress size. So we tend to stick with pieces of cardboard infused with green inspired shit salads because we are actually sad human beings desperately seeking attention. Or maybe we just need a frigging milk shake.
BUT, even though we tend to make other people sick with discussions of diet and training schedules, there is actually a whole different breed of fit fanatics that are beyond offensive, even to those of us who train infrequently.
It’s the guys who see the changes in their body and then get totally absorbed by it. Them gains becomes them chains because they lose their grip on reality as the positive results becomes their drug. They morph into ultra-motivated, too-much-meat-for-their-frame, pimple-covered, self-loving pricks. They eventually cross over to the dark side of healthy living.
And these days it feels like I’m surrounded by more and more of them. Like I’m one of the last few good men who are still standing proud, waving the flag of discipline, training five days a week without the proof of negative body fat percentage and an eight pack. Maybe I’m just jealous…
Then I realise that these guys who enjoy their progress of popping muscles becomes confused by their own results. They become intoxicated with every ounce gained and like fit zombies they morph even further until they eventually pitch at the gym wearing a neon coloured strappy tank top that would make any straight man hide away in shame. And what’s even worse is the corny slogans sprayed across the front: “Bro, do you even lift?”
As you can see, to call this a shirt would be an insult to all other shirts. When shirts are having a cocktail and this one joins in the conversation, the other simply walk away in disgust. It’s not worthy to be grouped with other garments covering a torso. Not to mention that most of these are accessorize with a baseball cap, worn backwards! @$^&$%*$!!
And let’s not forget the excessive flexing they do in these vests. It makes me sick. Twice. I’m all for self-appreciation but when your admiration of your reflection reaches a level where you don’t even hear the person next to you, then I reckon there is a serious problem. Why don’t you just go ahead and lick the frigging mirror, after kissing your biceps.
I get it, steroids work, just remember that the growth of your pecs and quads are indirectly related to the growth of your brains and balls. (And if that last statement doesn’t make any sense, it’s already too late for you.)
This happens every year and one would think that after so many summers spend in a gym, I’ll be used to it. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older and the douche bags are increasing but this year I’m kind of disillusioned with my fellow gym members. I actually wanted to give it up a few weeks ago.
Then I see Princess on the treadmill and Dude achieving personal bests and I sigh because I’m blessed to still have the ability to train with my two precious kids. I will endure.
Because I’m their protector and their instructor, having to teach them the way of the Jedi, to prevent them from crossing to the dark side. So I will face these idiots until I cannot exercise anymore or until my two kids starts leaving me at home.
Whichever comes first.