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. Continue reading
I’ve been busy. On all fronts. And things changed. Drastically.
This week marks the first time that I was able to persuade Princess to join us in our routine torture sessions before the sun shows his friendly, fat face. (I’m still moderately intrigued as to why she suddenly agreed to join us but in order to protect my sanity, I’m not going to dwell on that too long.)
Selling the concept of training in the morning was far easier than the execution thereof. It took a lot of persuasion to finally get her to wake up and get dressed in some kind of sports attire. Think ‘trying to fit and elephant in a mini cooper’. Not that I’m insinuating she’s fat because she definitely is not. She’s not even overweight. Besides wouldn’t I be an awful parent if I called my daughter an elephant? Even though she laughs like Heffalump. I’m getting side-tracked… Continue reading
Yes I’m a member. Of a gym. Humans who obviously doesn’t have a life. Some might even say I belong to a weird cult who gets up every morning and worship the gods of fitness by offerings of sweat and fat, generated by too much tofu, kale, tuna, brocolli and all other tasty treats. A sub-culture chasing an unattainable dream of creating better versions of ourselves, with an elusive six-pack tucked away under layers of desperation and vanity.
Or maybe we just prefer to be able to climb a flight of stairs or walk through an average sized mall without feeling like the oxygen supply to our lungs have been cut off permanently.
The truth is that I need this moderate commitment to fitness if only to prevent me from killing some of my coworkers with a stapler. Or a computer screen. Or my frigging SUV. It’s my therapy. Continue reading
There are many different ways in which society shows respect towards the elderly. I’m not referring to hiding dentures or changing the year on their calendar. Even though it was hilarious. I’m talking about gestures of respect that are unique to specific cultures.
Down here in Africa, Afrikaans people have been taught to address the elderly with “Oom” (male form) or “Tannie” (female form). It’s roughly translated into “Uncle” and “Aunt”. But it’s not only used for drunk relatives you want avoid at a family reunion. It’s also used when addressing a geriatric.
And that’s a very disrespectful, shitty gesture. Continue reading
Don’t confuse determination with desperation
The road to fitness is a lonely one. A jungle where muscles grows scarcely and with great difficulty among the roots of perseverance and determination. Where waterfalls of fat are draped over cliffs of protein stacks, scattered along the river of sweat. It’s a narrow, winding path with many obstacles. It leads you over and under and around dumbbells, barbells, treadmills, water fountains, headphones, playlists, guy nipples, yoga pants, public showers, nakedness and douche bags. It’s a treacherous path, not meant for the fainthearted or the weak. Or normal. Continue reading
With all the baffoons roaming the Serengeti of a gym, I’m surprised I’m still grazing there at all…
In my time on this blog I’ve had moments of ranting about naked guys and nipple showings. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the wonderful readers of this blog are starting to think that I’m training at some R-rated fitness facility, as some of the instructors also shadow as ladies of the night… Continue reading
Dear Naked Guy (and your friend)
It’s a new year and I need to applaud you for making some kind of commitment to a healthy lifestyle. For having a resolution to reduce the circumference of your wildly expanding gut. For getting off the couch at the crack of dawn, to run/lift/step/climb/spin. Good for you.
Being new to the whole fitness culture, I understand that you might be unaware of the generally accepted cardinal rules of gym behavior. There are the obvious ones like (1) Don’t grunt, (2) Don’t take selfies in front of the mirror, (3) Don’t perve at ladies squatting, (4) Wipe the bench and (5) Put the f*cking weights back on the rack. But this letter relates to the more specific things you should avoid doing in the semi-private space of the change room. Continue reading