It is my strong belief that there is a tiny lesson in each and every situation life serves up, if one just looks hard enough. Okay, so I really had to squint to make out the following observations, but it was all well worth it, for now I can present to you all the lessons that one can learn from one visit to the local Fitness Studio (name of fitness Studio omitted in fear of legal litigation / blows-of-fist from muscle-laden, involved parties).
I mean, of course, the Where's Waldo series we used to peruse. They propagated the notion that there will always be, behind every topsy-turvy situation, a little bit of "meaning" -- embodied in the fact that there was somehow, somewhere always a guy wearing a striped shirt. (One of the reasons I actually humbly suggest the renaming of the series from "Where's Waldo" to "There's Waldo Again").
Lesson I: Those lessons we learn as children can be valuable also when we think that we are no longer children.
Remember all the books we used to read - or, to be truthful: look at pictures in - as children? Those fascinating books that tried to make a complex world more understandable by stressing all the fascinating, hidden connections at work in this existence?
I mean, of course, the Where's Waldo series we used to peruse. They propagated the notion that there will always be, behind every topsy-turvy situation, a little bit of "meaning" -- embodied in the fact that there was somehow, somewhere always a guy wearing a striped shirt. (One of the reasons I actually humbly suggest the renaming of the series from "Where's Waldo" to "There's Waldo Again").
Of course, little did we know at the time that this immensely simplified notion would turn out to be wildly correct, though after visiting the fitness studio for the umpteenth time, I can definitely state that Waldo does not wear a striped shirt. Instead, the real Waldo is an older, oriental-looking man with a beard much like the one I am currently touting, with short black pants and a gray shirt, whose exentric body movements automatically identify him as being present each and every time I visit the gym - whether he is powerwalking out of the dressing room, preparing to mount a "Milon Circle" machine (one of those contraptions with the bizzarre, proturding antaenne that are meant to be pumped in a rythmic fashion in a fusion of man and machine so perfectly ridiculous that I can only but refrain from indulging); or at the end, popping up at the automatic doors with his eerie smile, just as I am about to sneak out hoping not to have spotted him, just once.
Lesson II: Cute, innocent-looking girls prefer macho supermen.
Okay, so maybe some of you took less time than I did to figure this one out. I for one, grew up believing those "love is..." caricatures, where the boy and the girl are roughly of the same size, or at least of the same size category.
Alas, the cruel reality of the gym teaches us otherwise. Witness Mary and the Incredible Hulk, a staple presence at the freeweight section almost as omnipresent as Waldo.
I remember the first time I saw this duo in action, in essence a tragedy (at least from my perspective) in three acts:
Foreplay:
I go to the free weights section, chest-press 2*10kg+the bar (!), and am instantly proud of this small lift for man, giant-ass lift for someone who is essentially a boy. Enter cute blonde girl, who proceeds to said freeweight session, notices and endorses the 2*10kg+the bar with a smile thrown in my direction & I wonder whether I need to revise my preconception that I never have the luck to meet and date hot chicks from gyms.Act 1: The tragedy takes its course
Enter giant steroid animal, who proceeds to add, to my 2*10kg, several*10kg (+the bar), upon which he receives a wonderful cooing pat from the above cute blonde. This incredible concentration of testosterone and muscle tissue now proceeds to be as rough with those poor weights as those weights are usually rough with poor me. His grunting is accompanied by general condolences ushered by said blonde chick.
Act 2: the sweaty catharsis
The WTF!8???!*20kg are now removed from the bar, and the giant belt girdling our Adonis is unlatched with the same ceremony as if it were some heavy weight boxing title. Our meat monster then proceeds to help said cute chick lift the bar several times, probably some sinister allusion to the fact that my 2*10 kg was something pretty close to what his girlfriend lifts.
Act 3: the happy ending (only for 2/3 of involved parties)
The drama closes with the two kissing, just to make her presumable conviction most blatantly obvious to me: the fact that her "partner" could snap someone like me in two goes some ways to addressing her need for that feeling of security she's seeking in an exciting and fulfilling relationship.
Lesson III: Never, ever believe the official sauna pictures (or: actual content may vary)
Okay, it's not like I went out and bought my fitness abo based on this:
I didn't, because although I do still believe in some things (like the FNAC salesman who told me I needed a $125 gold-plated cable to connect my DVD player to my beamer), I no longer believe in other things, like "heaven", or "truth in marketing".
In real life, the sauna is built of a dark, sweat-soaked wood, more ruddy in character; and instead of young, beautiful naked women, there are old, hairy, albeit naked men.
Finally, unlike what the picture seems to insinuate, I no longer expect enlightenment, in the form of a satisfying bright radiating beam, to touch me at the sauna.
In real life, the sauna is built of a dark, sweat-soaked wood, more ruddy in character; and instead of young, beautiful naked women, there are old, hairy, albeit naked men.
Finally, unlike what the picture seems to insinuate, I no longer expect enlightenment, in the form of a satisfying bright radiating beam, to touch me at the sauna.
