I am now also a person who BLOGS about going to the gym. Gross.

I’m currently sitting outside my classroom at CSM cursing every single rancid meat-sack taking up a desk therein because I want to be in the goddamn 8:00 class and not the 10:30 class but the 8:00 class basically has people falling out the window it’s so crowded and wouldn’t you bastards be happier sleeping at this time of morning what happened to the stereotypically lazy community college student you have all made me so mad that I have entirely forgotten how to use punctuation so I will punctuate with swears instead motherfucking shit-balls

I can’t say anything amusing or pithy about Company because I was too busy genuinely enjoying the crap out of it to formulate snark. I’m fascinated by good acting; or if not good acting, then at least strong choices, and there were a buttload of those happening onscreen. Company itself kind of goes over my head a little, I think. Because it started life as a play, it’s written in that sort of coded vernacular, where everything said actually means eight-thousand other things and I never feel smart enough to get what’s really going on, like, three layers down. But I love it all the same, in my not-particularly-insightful way. Company is difficult, and challenging, and presents an uncommonly realistic vision of life for a musical. It always leaves me with a bit of an ache. (There was a period in my adolescence when I would listen to Boyd Gaines sing “Being Alive” and cry, like, on a nightly basis. Then I grew up and that stopped, and it became just a song, until I heard it the other night. Things sometimes hit you in the most unexpected ways.)

Anyway. Enough of that stuff! Let’s talk about the fact that I am a person who goes to a gym now! That’s some craziness right there, let me tell you what. I got my membership on Tuesday, and have gone every single day except Friday, resulting in a near total inability to walk, but also a weight within spitting distance of what it was when it was in high school. I am still a fatty fatty two-by-four, but at least now I can fit through the kitchen door. Which is nice, ’cause that’s where they keep all the good snacks.

I don’t know if I’d call what I’m doing there “exercise” so much as it is “cultivating my very own shin-splints.” In fact, within two days I had my first official gym-related injury; namely, a massive bruise on my leg, achieved by staggering into a weight machine whilst attempting to make a suave exit in front of all the body-builders after a vigorous bout with the elliptical machine. It has now blossomed into something resembling a bluish-purplish-reddish pointillism masterpiece. “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Thigh,” if you will. My mom even attempted to take a picture of it with her iPhone, because she is the weirdest.

“Exit the gym without looking like you’re about to simultaneously vomit and pass out, even though you totally are” has become my new favorite game. My second favorite game is “find the machine least likely to get surrounded by taut, gleaming demigods who will make you feel even more like some kind of anthropomorphic larvae over the course of your workout.” Hours of fun! For real, though; I’m not an exhibitionist exerciser (exherciser?), and prefer a distance of at least two machines between myself and other folks. No gym-neighbors, please. (Jim Nabors, on the other hand, would be acceptable. JUST A LITTLE JOKE FOR ANY AARP-ERS IN THE AUDIENCE. YOU’RE WELCOME.)

I was planning on hitting the gym for about two hours after this morning’s class, but now it looks like I’ll be here ’til well after noon, so there’ll have to be a change in the game-plan. I will probably have to workout for just a Cheer instead of a Star War. (I think of my workouts in terms of what I can stream to my iPhone from Netflix. It is a wildly successful strategy.)

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