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Working Out is Bad for Your Health
I went to the gym recently.
It did not go well.
The gym has always been a scary place, with images of the rowing machine ripping my arms off, so the urge to attend has been just as strong as my desire to take up knitting.
But now I’m at college, and how muscled a guy is often directly affects how many friends/girls/respect/power/food he has. It wasn’t a problem for me until two things happened:
1. I realised that everyone around (and I mean everyone) has suddenly started working out, wearing tank tops to college and greeting me with their fists.
2. I lost in an arm wrestle with a girl (although she was huge) The second one isn’t actually true. It’s just a recurring nightmare.
So the decision was made, towards the end of my first year. I went with a friend who assured me he was himself a bit of a gym guru, and assured me that no, those jeans would be fine to wear, don’t worry Bunyan, those shoes are also fine etc.
So we signed in at 2:00 on a peaceful Tuesday afternoon. I figured the road to the Incredible Hulk began with the treadmill.
I had just raised speed to ten, as the guardian of this strange new realm (a lovely lady called Susie) burst through the door, as if searching the premises for illegal substances, and demanding to know, in a very loud voice; “WhatAREyouWEARING?!”.
Obviously I retained my cool as only I know how: by stopping suddenly, having my legs whisked out from underneath me and two-foot-flying-kicking her in the shins. I left with death threats, signing out at 2:02, and I doubt whether I’ll be making another visit for at least another year.