Gym Nasty
For the first time in over a month I started going to the gym every morning again. I had to stop during the Bayan-Bayanan rehearsals and run because we often ended so late at night I needed the extra time in the morning to catch up on sleep. Memorizing, repeating the blocks, dying on stage again and again—playing Pol was really tiring. I also tried to watch what I ate during the whole run. Still the lack of exercise took a toll on me. I was huffing and puffing more during my 20-min cardio routine on the treadmill, and my muscles were complaining when I lifted weights.
I’m not really a vain person but I do have my insecurities, and poor body image is one. Well, I have been working on having a better self-image; however, changes don’t happen overnight. So in the meantime I also work out to look good and feel good. Besides, I always tell myself that keeping a healthy body will be better as I grow older.
Going back to the gym after a long spell, I was hoping that the morning crowd had improved in my absence. Before, there was absolutely zero eye candy in the morning crowd. The instructors? Bleah. My fellow gym bunnies? Ngyek. Well, one or two have gorgeous bodies that are ruined by a not-so-pleasing face. We call them hipon (shrimp): tapon ulo (toss the head aside). As for the instructors, no one is handsome, none have a to-die-for body, and they all have the personality of a fire hydrant. (I’m beginning to ask myself: What the hell am I doing in that gym?!)
What’s even more irritating is that there’s this group of about 5-6 bodyguards of our company chairman who often work out in the mornings too. They look like ex-military men, all swarthy-looking, brusque in demeanor, and (suspiciously) sound like they all come from the same province—they all speak with the same accent or punto. I’ve nothing against men from the barracks—in fact they’re one of my kinkier fantasies. But when they work out as a group they turn the gym into one big boot camp—and we’re the outsiders. They pause in between sets to chat; meanwhile the rest of us are waiting for them to finish so we can use the machines. At times I interrupt them with, “Can we alternate on that machine?” but that hasn’t reduced their morning chika-fest. My subtle hints can’t seem to penetrate their heads. Blame it on their thick, sun-burnt skins and small brains. They’re not gym bunnies, they’re gym hippos.
Oh well. The gym is one big zoo, and I’m the monkey spitting at the guests and looking for bananas to eat.
I’m not really a vain person but I do have my insecurities, and poor body image is one. Well, I have been working on having a better self-image; however, changes don’t happen overnight. So in the meantime I also work out to look good and feel good. Besides, I always tell myself that keeping a healthy body will be better as I grow older.
Going back to the gym after a long spell, I was hoping that the morning crowd had improved in my absence. Before, there was absolutely zero eye candy in the morning crowd. The instructors? Bleah. My fellow gym bunnies? Ngyek. Well, one or two have gorgeous bodies that are ruined by a not-so-pleasing face. We call them hipon (shrimp): tapon ulo (toss the head aside). As for the instructors, no one is handsome, none have a to-die-for body, and they all have the personality of a fire hydrant. (I’m beginning to ask myself: What the hell am I doing in that gym?!)
What’s even more irritating is that there’s this group of about 5-6 bodyguards of our company chairman who often work out in the mornings too. They look like ex-military men, all swarthy-looking, brusque in demeanor, and (suspiciously) sound like they all come from the same province—they all speak with the same accent or punto. I’ve nothing against men from the barracks—in fact they’re one of my kinkier fantasies. But when they work out as a group they turn the gym into one big boot camp—and we’re the outsiders. They pause in between sets to chat; meanwhile the rest of us are waiting for them to finish so we can use the machines. At times I interrupt them with, “Can we alternate on that machine?” but that hasn’t reduced their morning chika-fest. My subtle hints can’t seem to penetrate their heads. Blame it on their thick, sun-burnt skins and small brains. They’re not gym bunnies, they’re gym hippos.
Oh well. The gym is one big zoo, and I’m the monkey spitting at the guests and looking for bananas to eat.
posted by joelmcvie at 7:39 PM
2 Comments:
I’m the monkey spitting at the guests and looking for bananas to eat.
There's something Freudian about this statement.
"There's something Freudian about this statement."
But of course! :-)
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