I hate working out. Let’s just get that out of the way. I have never in my life felt a runner’s high. I don’t like staring at myself struggle to lift weights. I do not welcome the feeling of sweat running down my forehead, boobs, and ass. I will never in my life comprehend why some people willingly wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to go torture their bodies. TBH I think they’re all a touch psychopathic, but whatever.
Because I’m getting to that age where the ole metabolism just isn’t what it used to be, I’ve had to suck it up and get my act together. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not fat. Far from it. I think I’m doing pretty alright in the looks department, but a buddy of mine recently began personal training on the side, and for a cool $20.00 a month, I could justify drinking gallons of red wine four nights a week and sobbing into a large pizza. On top of that, I now have the opportunity to sound uppity AF when I tell people “I’m meeting my personal trainer at four.”
Translation: “Michael is going to stare in awe and pity as I struggle to do one push up.”
I’m not here to tell you the physical benefits of going to the gym. Oh no. Fuck that. In my time of working out, however, I have realized a secret that those of us non-exercising types never knew about. The sweaty room of death offers something much more satisfying than sore muscles and baby abs. The gym is the perfect place to bitch about anything and everything. Who cares about picking heavy things up and putting them down? Or progress pictures? Or actually being hot (isn’t that what FaceTune is for)? No. the gym is the perfect place to stop bottling up how pissed you are at your frenemy and let it all out. For around an hour, three to four times a week, you can release all the bullshit that’s been plaguing you.
Matt took more than five minutes to text you back? Asshole. Your roommate set the kitchen on fire simply boiling noodles? Spoiled brat. Mom won’t stop asking you when you plan on reproducing? How about never? No matter what is going on or how pissed you are, moving your legs over an elliptical while you bitch to your best friend is like a happy hour for emotions. And nothing cleanses the body and soul like a good old fashioned bitch fest. But the place to do it isn’t the bar or at your best friend’s little sister’s birthday party where you drank one too many hard iced teas. No, the perfect place to whine and complain is the gym, where everyone is in as much agony as you are.
Not only do you get to verbalize your four-part analysis on why Becky is such a slut, but you can use all that pent-up energy to make the jump from the five-pound dumbbells to the ten-pound ones. Baby steps, ladies. On top of all of this, after you’ve spent some time literally sweating all the small stuff, people assume you’re a positive, well-adjusted human because your complaining in public is at an all-time low. You think this heavenly glow came from doing kettlebell swings? Guess again.
So ladies, take my advice: Get a gym membership, find a buddy, and go bitch about life. Thank me later..
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Typical bitch. Lover of red wine. Perfecter of the side eye. I play Broadway show tunes out loud in the gym. My brunch order is Chicken & Waffles.
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