Gym Dandy, -OR- Your Boyfriend Is Making You Fat
29 August 2006There’s nothing I love more than a call to action and you, anon commenter, have spurred me on! Also, I’d like to distract myself from the fact that today I had to hunt my boss down to go “Hey, I just hung up on your wife. By accident. I promise to learn how to transfer people into voicemail while you’re out this week.” True story. I am kicking ass and taking names over here. Anyway:
I have a problem and I know exactly whom to blame it on. Well, several problems and several people to blame, none of which are me. The #1 problem is that I have gotten totally complacent about my physical state of being and this is squarely the fault of the boy. When I was single and/or dabbling in those insignificant others, I would never consider watching all three Die Hard movies in a row while eating apple pie, stopping only to take naps, a normal Saturday (my thoughts on the Die Hard franchise are extensive and long ruminated upon, to come in written form soon. I know you’re excited. Let’s start with this– think about the phrase “Die Hard” and try to imagine a world in which it makes sense. This is just like in the buffy the vampire slayer movie when the vampires get angry at Luke Perry (“Pike’s not a name, it’s a fish”) and one directs the other one: “kill him a LOT.” You can’t kill someone a lot. Or in the Simpsons where that one guy goes to the other guy “I am totally going to kill you.” If you kill someone at all, aren’t you killing them totally, by nature of the action? And you can’t really Die Hard. Unless you mean die-hard, as in, I am a die-hard Mets fan or Bruce Willis is a die-hard enthusiast of poorly written action movies, in which case that should be clarified). My Saturdays used to involve waking up, going running, doing productive household chores, and volunteering. Now they largely involve ordering in from Dallas BBQ and trying to decide if we should watch ESPN News or Breaking Up With Shannon Doherty on the Oh! Network (another sidebar, soon to be expanded on via Tifaux– has anyone else seen this show?? People sign up to have Shannon Effing Doherty to break up with their boy/ girlfriends. How does such a service exist?), or watching Simpsons DVDs (of which he owns them ALL; see above reference, I could never come up with that one on my own) and only leaving the apartment to go to the Dunkin Donuts/ Baskin Robbins (the devil’s combo if ever there was one!) that is located all of 25 yards from his apartment. Ladies, I have news for you- your boyfriend is making you fat. All of this will someday be expanded on in my dissertation, Plus Sized with a Plus One.
Conveniently, I also just switched jobs to an extremely employee-friendly company. I haven’t felt so well looked-after since I was 9 and my mom used to put notes in my lunch sandwich baggies. Maybe this is just the dog and pony show they do for new girls but, whatever, hand me the kool-aid. And because of all of those studies that show that well-exercised employees are happy employees (“exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t kill their husband. {pause} They just don’t.”) my company really, REALLY wants me to work out. They are making it incredibly easy for me. Serving it up on a silver platter. As in, hey, if you have some time at lunch, or after work, why don’t you head down to this conference room and do some pilates. Or, here is a discount schedule for (a) the gym across the street from your apartment building and (b) the gym directly behind your apartment building, and we’ll also pay for part of your yearly membership. PLEASE go work out, cristin. You being fat and lazy isn’t going to help anyone. Did you hear us, there, cubicle 6J01? Put the pie down, and step away from Bruce Willis.
Seriously, though, a moment (another moment) on Bruce Willis, specifically as he pertains to the Die Hard trilogy. I saw the third one in theaters when I was 14, having not seen the previous two (was somehow still able to follow the “plot”) and loved it. LOVED it. I’m guessing this was largely due to the puzzle-solving aspect of it (deciphering riddles in order to disarm bombs! It’s like 24 meets the DaVinci Code! Or something!) and not the action movie, subways-exploding aspect of it. And somehow, recently, many seemingly unrelated aspects of my life have been pointing me toward Die Hard 3: With A Vengence. For example, when I emailed my dad about the baseball game we were to see on Saturday night (mets 11- Phillies 5, take that “sixth borough”), he somehow turned a very simple email about gate and seat locations into a discussion of baseball history (why do the Mets wear orange and blue? Why were the Brooklyn Dodgers named so? What was the name of the stadium where the old NY Giants used to play?) which then somehow snowballed into, as all stickles family conversations do, presidential trivia, during which time my dad decided to ask that president immediately followed Chester Arthur. Have I mentioned that the Boyfriend was included on this reply-all chain? That was in no way embarrassing for me. Particularly when I replied that Chester Arthur was the 21st president and my dad wrote, incredulously, “that’s RIGHT! How did you know that?” expecting, I assume, for me to give any of the following answers: Because you, Vicki and mom paid 100k for me to go to college; Because even though I got a 3 on the AP US History exam I really function at a 5-level basis of knowledge when it comes to Important Homeland Figures; Because said expensive college also educated 4(?) US presidents; Because a lifetime of car rides with you, dad, reciting the presidents in chronological order, has finally paid off. He got none of that, and was instead treated to “In Die Hard 3: With a Vengence, one of the clues Bruce Willis is forced to decipher involves finding out what 21 out of 42 is, which he, along with Samuel L (“I’ve had it with these muthafucking bombs on these muthafucking trains!”) Jackson, correctly interpret to mean finding out who the 21st president was, information they are able to come by via the happy-go-lucky dump truck driver that they happen to encounter, which leads them to discover that the bomb is, in fact, contained within Chester A Arthur Elementary School.”
So instead of inspiring me to do something like, oh, I don’t know, watch the musical 1776! Or book a trip to Disney to peruse the Hall of Presidents or read a book or something, my dad actually sent me packing directly to Blockbuster to rent not just one but all three Die Hard movies. Or to try to, anyway. Two and Three were readily available (number two is actually called Die Harder. I passed it by when I first saw it because I-erroneously–assumed that Die Harder must be some kind of spoof. I mean, really. This is like how we were calling Stick It “Bring it On-er,” right?) but the case for Die Hard (the original) was there, containing no DVD. So I actually asked a member of the Blockbuster staff where #1 might have gone off to, silently admitting that, yes, I was trying to watch the whole glorious trilogy in one sitting and that I can’t very well do that without the originator. Think of how lost you would be watching Jurassic Park II without having seen I. Exactly. But they confirmed that someone had stolen it (how long, do you suppose, had that case sat empty before someone brought it to their attention? I’m afraid to ask) and I was sent off with just II and III. III, as previously discussed, is awesome. I watched that one first while The Boyfriend made pie (societal role reversals, party of 2, your table is ready). Then I went into watching II while we ate said pie (sadly not a metaphor) and was shocked to discover that Die Hard II. Totally. Sucks. A lot. There are no puzzles to solve, a lot of people needlessly die in a plane crash, and there’s one scene where bruce willis is faxing the fingerprints of a guy he just shot in the airport luggage area over to his buddies in LA, one of which is the dad from Family Matters, and the woman who’s at the customer service counter hits on bruce willis, turned on by, one can only guess, his gruff, all-business demeanor, suggesting to him that they go get a drink when her shift is over because, hey, this guy just SHOT someone at your place of business which is going to be a great story to tell the kids, and bruce willis actually taps his wedding ring and says–wait for it–”just the fax, m’am.” Yes. Yes. I groaned audibly.
So you see now, how I’ve been spending my time recently, and how none of this–none–is conductive to me being in peak physical form. No. I can 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon every “actor” involved in the Die Hard series, but I get out of breath walking up my stairs. Now let’s couple this with the fact that, come Monday, half of my extended family is running in a half marathon that, circa April, I was fairly convinced I’d be able to tackle (false) and add in that last night I had an extremely vivid dream that I told everyone I knew I had run a marathon and they were all so proud of me and I was dying inside because I was LYING to all of them. LYING. The catholic guilt, it will get you every time. Even in your subconscious. Particularly when you know that you have corporate health benefits that some people would kill for. That I’ve been ignoring the looming gym membership possibilities is coming as a shock to no one, particularly people that knew me in college when we had a pretty kick-ass rec center that I only went to if someone else from my sorority was promising to be there in order to lay around on the sit up mats and gossip with me about who had an eating disorder. I didn’t feel the unathletic guilt then but, since my brain stem is now devoting precious space generally reserved for bad dreams about my teeth falling out, or having to walk on snakes, to nightmares about lying to my family regarding my athletic prowess, it might be safe to say that it’s time to do something about it.
A few weekends ago I went to tour the behind-the-apartment gym, ruling out the in-front-of-the-apartment gym because of my steadfast belief that patronizing a franchise that offers 24 hour access to the workout facility is wrong on many counts. WHY do you need to work out at 3 am? I get that we live in a city of freelancers and strippers (which camp do you think is more insulted by that lumping together?) and convenience is everyone’s number 1 factor around here, but come on. Come ON. COME ON. I don’t want 24 hour access to my gym. At least if there are times when I cannot go, then there are times where I can engaged in other activities–pie eating, for example–without feeling guilty about my gym absence.
In touring behind-the-apartment gym I actually got pretty pumped. There was a time in my life–let’s call it “after college when I was commuting to work while living at home,” or, for shorthand, “the dark ages”–where I became obsessed with my gym. I loved all of it. Wait, not true–I did not love the personal trainer I was matched up with against my will, who told me I had 33% body fat. I watch quite a few makeover shows, and I read more women’s magazines than is emotionally healthy, I have seen PLENTY of “before” statistics and pictures to know that I do not have 33% body fat. 23% I would have believed, based solely on the references to pie in this entry alone. After getting over that trauma, I loved my gym. I loved the classes, I loved the treadmills, I loved waving jauntily to my trainer across the free weights room while thinking “guess what 33% of me is mentally flipping you off?” And so when I saw this gym, I was pretty stoked, as it had all of those things and more. Like a gym (for all the basketball I don’t play), an indoor track (in case I want to run 35 laps to a mile), an indoor pool (because I look all kinds of hot in goggles), and a room for spinning (in case I decide, after a 25 year absence, to bring that into my life). Oh, and there are cute little TVs attached to every cardio machine. In case you want to watch, say, True Life: I’m Going To Fat Camp while you work the elliptical machine. Remind me, at some point, to talk about how the elliptical machine is the biggest scam ever perpetrated on the American public.
In addition to all of those bonus spots, it also has a locker room that was, when I toured it, full of saggy old naked ladies (it’s a Y). I’m not sure if I want to be surrounded by saggy old naked ladies. I’m sure this’ll give me all the more reason to run my little (big) buns off, but still. I’m not mature enough for this, and all I could think on the locker room tour was “eeeeew GROSS. Ooh, towel service! Eeew, gross!” But perhaps this’ll have the same function that my college campus did, wherein being surrounded by odd looking people serves to convince you that you are, in fact, a supermodel, and that it’s okay to go around yelling things like “I did him a FAVOR!” after a guy you made out with talks shit about you. Though I maintain I DID do him a favor. Seriously. Eeeeew, gross.
So in summary:
1. Boys make you fat and lazy.
2. Being fat and lazy gives me nightmares.
3. If my company is going to give me incentives to not be fat and lazy, I should take them.
Right? I should do this, right? I’m hesitating over loading my credit card with the pre-reimbursement membership fee, even though the idea of getting all of those credit card points makes me want to dance on top of tables. Which, along with the feeling of sheer joy I experienced when I discovered that my monthly prescriptions are going to be $7 cheaper under my new health insurance, should be the real signs that I’m an adult now. Sadly.
6 Responses to “Gym Dandy, -OR- Your Boyfriend Is Making You Fat”
August 29th, 2006 at 9:03 pm
stickles, you never fail to crack me up.
bring me something fun to read at the BBQ (or after the BBQ. eventually my parents did hammer it into my head that it is rude to read when others are expecting you to entertain them). if you want anything from the company so amazingly british that we don’t even pay for health insurance, just let me know.
August 30th, 2006 at 9:35 am
You should join — I like the gym. One time to be alone for at least an hour a day, straighten out your thoughts, relax a little….
Mmm, pie.
August 30th, 2006 at 9:56 am
I totally agree. While Kyle was in Germany? I lost 10 pounds. Expect me to become a bloated mess any day now.
August 30th, 2006 at 1:56 pm
I hate you for your health benefits, because when I started grad school I canceled my New York Sports Clubs membership in favor of the NYU “Rec” “Center,” which saves me $80 a month, but is a pale, flabby imitation of the luxurious facilities we had in the ‘Burg. Columbia as well had a much nicer gym, even though it was underground. This one? Only has the elliptical machines with the arm workout things, and I hate those. And it’s NOT AIR-CONDITIONED. Jesus. Ugh.
August 30th, 2006 at 3:52 pm
A) Breaking up with Shannon Doherty, sick. Not sick, as in ill; sick, as in effed-up. It’s like 5th grade when you had your BFF tell your BF that he was dunzo instead of breaking up him yourself.
B) I maintain that the only reason to go to the gym is to talk smack about the people around you.
C) Welcome back. A week was a long time.
August 30th, 2006 at 5:24 pm
And all this time I had thought that when you went to the gym all the time in college, you were working out, not just gossiping about who never ate. You had me fooled!
And yes. You did him a huge favor.