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3:27 p.m. - 2002-05-31
Grunt.
On to the dumber stuff again.

I went to the gym yesterday. I can’t really describe what lifting weights does for me adequately, though it won’t stop my blabbermouth from trying.

Standing in a room filled with devices and metal plates measured in precise increments that mean nothing without a human brain to quantify them. Surrounded by grunting, sweaty men who are all there with the thought of transforming into a lumpier version of themselves. I get in my headspace rather quickly and seldom notice anything or anyone once it takes full force. I enjoy this aspect of the experience, there are people who I see nearly everyday who will never get more than a syllable or two in communication from me, nor I from them, when in the boundaries of the place, but if we were to ever run into each other on the outside as is not an infrequency, we will talk as if we were old friends.

Inside though, it is a testosterone-fueled understanding.

Every once in a while the respect that I have earned with my perceived dedication and drive will glimmer through a comment made about me, if seldom to me. I usually let it slide outwardly, but it finds its purchase in my ego.

Yesterday I joined a fellow meat head, and believe me, the main purpose of this activity for yours truly is to meatify my head for the brief, beautiful hours during and following the hefting, at one of the devices designed to allow one to increase the bulbous mass at the posterior deltoid. It is not a commonly used machine as the movement does nothing for the muscles visible to the user himself, thus only those who have decided to manipulate their entire body rather than their reflection in the mirror ever go through the effort. This fellow meathead is more serious than I am, in fact I have never heard tell of him taking a break, and his frame doesn’t give it away if he ever has. He has well over forty-five pounds of pure muscle beyond myself, and is bigger than I could ever, or would ever hope to become. His hobby transcends the description of “weight-lifter” to “body-builder” by most standards.

My point? I used double the weight on the same exercise as he, a revered veteran.

There is a part of me that sees the stupidity in finding joy in such an irrelevant and base victory, but yesterday, and today too for that matter, I have decided to enjoy it as a macho medal of honor.

Why the fuck not, I ask myself. Why the fuck?

So it seems that I have allowed myself to be human again for a moment in time. I wonder when and if that comes without the bureaucracy of my own permission.

 

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