The Price of Fitness

I benched eight reps of 185 yesterday. I had plateaued at five reps for weeks, but powered out eight fairly easily after a three day rest. I immediately slapped ten more pounds and did four reps of 195. I stepped on a scale at the end of my work out and did a double take; for the first time in a decade, I weigh less than 200 pounds. The scale said 199. Three months ago, it said 208.

All this raw, physical power I now wield has dramatically changed how I interact with the human race. For instance, when I was done benching 195, some hulking, tattooed punk looked at me cross-eyed. I said, “What the *@#$ are you lookin’ at?”

He looked down to the ground as he murmured, “Nothing sir.”

I flexed reflexively, nearly pushing over with my rippling sinews a passing gym-goer. I lowered my voice and said, “You’re damn right nothing. Now get the hell out of here.”

He scurried away as fast as he could before the shadow of my brawny physique.

A bit later, as I left the gym, a swarm of lingerie clad honnies mobbed me just outside the door. They begged me to come with them to an undisclosed location that they insisted contained lots of beer, a 50” HD TV, a video camera, and mirrored walls. I demurred, of course, but the honnies wouldn’t take no for an answer until I held up my left hand and displayed my wedding band.

They pouted as they left, to which I could only say, “Hate the game, babes, not the playa. Not the playa.”

I don’t enjoy intimidating roided-out punks or fending off the unsolicited advances of hot babes. But if that’s the price I must pay for being fit, then so be it.