The GeekHiker

Today is my two month anniversary of joining the gym.

I know what you’re thinking: “Woo”.  Or perhaps even “Big ‘Freakin Woo”.

But for me, the fact that I’ve actually been going consistently for two months impresses the hell out of, well, me.

While I haven’t woken up with the body of our good Governator or anything, I’m actually starting to see a distinct effect.  By Joe, I’ve got muscles!

Even more interesting: my posture has improved.  It was just a slight slip I had, not so much a slouch, just a slight… well, let’s just say that if you looked at me, you knew I was unhappy.  It happened, I’m sure, during the final months of the last relationship, my body’s way of saying that I was unhappy in a way that my mind hadn’t realized yet.  I didn’t know it was there, and I’m glad it’s gone.  The fact that I joined the gym on Valentine’s Day may not have been a coincidence, after all.

I’ve not yet lost, though, that 5 lbs okay, 10 lbs., around the middle I want to.  Oh, sure, the scale says that I’ve lost two pounds, and maybe I’ve lost more fat and gained some muscle, but I don’t know that I quite buy that yet.

Besides, scales lie.  All of my female friends tell me so, so it must be true.

I am still, unfortunately, the scrawniest guy at the gym.  Hell, some days I feel like the scrawniest human at the gym.  Personally, I wish they would hire some 90 lb. weakling, put him out of the floor, have him go through the motions of weight lifting: struggling, straining, groaning in sheer mind-bending agony to lift 2 lb weights, never gaining an ounce of muscle, just so the rest of us can feel like we’re getting more studly on a regular basis.  An ego boost is good for the health, too, you know.

Oh sure, everybody says, nobody at the gym is noticing you.  Everyone is too worried about themselves and their own appearance to worry about yours.  And judging by the couple of guys I see who check themselves out in the mirrors between sets, they may be right.  But if I’m noticing my fellow workout folks and the fact that they’re more ripped than me, then doesn’t it make sense that their noticing my under-beefcaked ass as well?

Ah, well, no matter.  The point is is that it’s been two months, I’m still going, and, while I certainly wouldn’t say I love it (still waiting for the damn endorphin high I was promised, thank you very much), I don’t hate it either.

And not hating it almost makes the pain go away.  Almost.