Whiskey Tango

Due to work and parenting responsibilities, I haven’t been able to make it to a class lately, and probably won’t until Tuesday.  That being the case, I didn’t want to derail any momentum that I had going, so I decided to sneak in a quick workout at my apartment complex “gym”.

I use the word “gym” loosely, as it consists only of a late 80’s model treadmill, a weight machine that had to have been smuggled in from Communist Russia, and a seated exercise bike.

More interesting than the equipment, however, is the clientele.  My complex is a haven for sad divorcees and white trash (and these two factions are by no means mutually exclusive), so the exercise room is always rife with overwhelming self-pity and unjustifiable self-celebration. 

I hadn’t been there in awhile, but I recognized the two people who shared the room with me.  They guy that was there always looks like he’s working off generous helpings of Wild Turkey and loneliness from the night before, and the lady looks as though she had to have a very serious deliberation with herself as to whether or not stealing a smoke while on the seated exercise bike would really be that counterproductive.

In either case, I found the equipment at hand unsuitable for my fitness needs.  Where’s the jumprope?  Where are my 10 pounders?  I felt oddly unsatisfied; and moreover I felt pretty fucking superior using these feeble tools of self-improvement.

This experience was a nice, if deluding, change from the CrossFit Humiliation routine I’ve fallen into.  However, unlike CrossFit it felt no more rewarding than if I had just downed a Diet Coke with my Frisco Burger.  At this point my best case scenario is that the little time I spent throwing weights around and pimpin’ on the treadmill will keep me from having to start my body over on Tuesday and go through the whole initial trauma again.

What am I thinking? Of course that’s going to happen, because CrossFit was designed to break my body and my soul.