Working Out

My partner convinced me to get my sorry ass to the gym. Actually, a gym membership was one of his Christmas gifts to me. Sometimes subtlety eludes him.

It has, however, proved to be one of his most helpful gifts. Right now I am probably in the best shape of my life (not that it was a hard benchmark to overcome).

I have never, ever been someone who loves to work out. As I have made it part of my routine, though, I have realized something about myself. I am somebody who can really, really reinterpret his emotions. In other words, rather than recognizing that my body is in pain, I turn that feeling outward to my fellow gym goers. Basically, it emerges as supreme lust.

True, there are obvious gods who lurk around the equipment daily. These are men that any man-loving-man would notice.

Yet, the gym seems to spur interest in guys I would never notice outside of the testosterone drenched walls. There is TwinkGod; SaunaCrunchGuy (he does crunches in the sauna, don’t know why); WorksOnlyArmsGuy (not to mention WorksOnlyArmsGuy’sBrother!); and on and on.

Okay, so I don’t have the most original of nicknames for them. But who cares? They are all deities in my perspiration induced daze. . .