So I’ve just been watching G.I. Joe: Retaliation. It was terrible, but I quite enjoyed it. Sort of like I enjoy Transformers; they’re enjoyable films, but I would never call them good films. Anyway, as with all films featuring an ex-wrestler or body builder, G.I. Joe made it hard not to question the ridiculousness of the lead actor’s physique. Dwayne Johnson always comes off as a friendly loveable sort of guy, but I just can’t understand how a person can sculpt such a body. And that’s after having read Total Recall, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s autobiography, the beginning of which is ALL ABOUT building such a collection of muscles.
Anyway, as a big fan of Arnie, action films and comic books, I’ve always felt a bit down whenever I don’t make an effort to keep in some sort of reasonable shape. When your main hobby involves reading about muscular men leaping around in tight clothing, sitting on your butt all day being a slob starts to seem hypocritical.
It’s at this stage that you start to think about working out. And most of the time, after straining yourself thinking about the foils of physical labour, you give up and go back to what you were previously doing.
But sometimes, just sometimes, you manage to do something productive.
Flailing to Get in Shape
But the path to the perfect body is riddled with trials and tribulations. Unfortunately, the only gym that costs less than a fiver to even get to from my house has been built in my old school. Even two years after escaping, the clutches of secondary education are still trying to lure me back to them.
Usually, I go to the gym early, so really it’s not much of a problem. Either I get there before any of the students have even arrived, or they’re stuck in class, and I’m free to enjoy my work out in peace.
But then comes the next dilemma. Before this holiday, it had been the better part of a year since I had last been a member at a gym, and even then, I wasn’t big on muscle building. I stuck with what I knew, which was cardio. But that just left my afro-rocking self looking like a tree. Lanky. Awkward. Crest disproportionate to everything else.
It’s only now that I’m straying into the field of the unknown. For the most part, it works out alright, for my usual company at the gym is middle aged women and old men, and frankly, that suits me just fine, as a twenty year old, even a slightly out of shape one, I at least look young and healthy.
But then comes my worst nightmare; in comes a sixth former who has a free period. Someone younger and healthier than me. I quickly have to dispense of the dumbells and retreat to something safer; a treadmill, perhaps an easily operated weight-machine; or face being outdone by someone I should have out-bulked years ago. Whilst I’ve been pumping my measly 12 or 14kg dumbells, they’re rocking the 30kg’s.
But I’ll persist. I’ll achieve that perfect bod one day. Forget the fact I’ve been saying that for years. One day…
Maybe not quite that far though.