In The Zone

Buying a membership for a local twenty-four hour gym was more expensive than I guessed it would be. I’m so sick of the petty employees up on the hill at work that I decided the less I have to interact with them the better. Their sense of entitlement and spoiled brat behavior disgusts me. The cost of the fitness center membership is worth it to me. After the incident with the Wednesday evening cubicle-dicks dressed up like Olivia Newton-John extras from the “Let’s Get Physical” World Tour I chose to boycott the company exercise room. I suppose now that the company has more or less stabilized from job attrition in the United States, those who still hold a position that comes complete with it’s own little office at Bill and Dave’s are even more arrogant. They’re buying into corporate management’s propaganda that everyone who is left standing is now safe from future layoffs, thinking they will be there until they retire or some shit. Can’t wait to see the look on their faces when they get thrown out with a severance package next year.

I workout at the gym three times a week. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I gave myself weekends off to relax and drink beers. My routine is a half hour on a stationary bike in the cardio-room and then I spend 45 minutes to an hour on the weight floor. I alternate between upper body and leg machines until I’m too tired to continue.

On the bike after ten minutes or so I start to zone out. I don’t listen to music or watch the televisions on the far wall of the expansive room. It’s like I’m hypnotized or something. Time disappears until all of a sudden the red LED display on the bicycle tells me the session is complete. Sometimes before the time is up I have a moment of clarity and I scan over all the bodies in front of me, organized by equipment rows. They jump up flights of stairs to nowhere and run in place endlessly. Some of them seem so incredibly active and in good health I wonder why they are here. Others are terribly overweight and I am surprised they don’t drop dead on the spot. Standing up from the bicycle I wipe sweat off of it’s handlebars and control panel. Then I walk away towards the weight room and slide into a vacant machine to punish my arms.

I zone out on the weight machines too, but not as much. There are more distractions on the weight floor. More people wandering about talking with each other or on their cell phones. Some people just don’t know when to ditch their ever important cell phone. It’s like life might end for a half hour without it. As I sit working on my shoulders a stranger will be at the machine directly across from me sitting on another machine babbling into their cell phone about their job, what they bought at the store earlier, or what the neighbors have been up to. It’s all mindless bullshit. And these jerks are blocking anybody else from using the machine they’re on. Seems oblivious, selfish, and inconsiderate of others. Nobody can use that piece of equipment until they get up. But what do I know maybe I just constantly complain about people no matter where I am. I try to tune them out and get back to the zone.

Oddly enough I have observed a new kind of female nitwit here at the twenty four hour gym. It’s some sort of workout-makeup-zombie. These horrible little monsters are rail-thin, wear skin tight metallic outfits that make them look almost naked, and they’ve got makeup caked so thick on their small faces that they might as well have gone to Tammy Faye-Baker’s cosmetics school. Here’s what is so weird about them. They arrive at the gym already dressed in their bodysuits and they proceed to come onto the weight room floor but they never actually exercise. I haven’t seen one of these broads lift a single weight. What they do is position themselves near a busy area and sit on an unused abdominal machine for example, and watch. That’s all they do. Besides talk on a cell phone of course. I suspect these women are here man-hunting. And they need to be seen, badly. I guess it’s an attention thing.

I fade back into the zone until it’s time to leave. At least the beat-downs are helping me get to sleep at night.

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~ by factorypeasant on March 22, 2009.

One Response to “In The Zone”

  1. good to see you writing again.

    exersize iz 4 teh gh3yz.

    devil T

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