On my way to the gym today, I decided to double fuck the industry and bought a large beer can to drink from during my sinful yet epic leg press session. Normally, I prefer pirate rum, but it’s expensive and comes in large bottles. Besides, I didn’t want to get kicked out of the gym right away. I had plans to return there next week.
I entered the dungeon with a beer sticking out of my backpack. I looked like somebody who had recently left the madhouse after a prolonged period of undereating. It’s easy to pull the recovering addict look when you are a natural ectomorph.
I passed by two weirdos who were already training and chatting.
“Look at that skinny moron,” they thought while staring at each other with the type of passion you feel when you have a fellow hating buddy and a target.
I went straight to the leg press machine and started warming up with just the sled. Meanwhile, my gym roommates were definitely having a wonderful time talking nonsense. One of them was really big, dumb and had a disgusting wife-beater shirt. The first association in my mind was “Dbol bloat”.
It turned out that he was a big-shot attorney in a foreign law firm. The other guy was much smaller, probably semi-natural, and as far as I understood, he was getting paid for putting his fingers in people’s mouths. In other words, he was a dentist.
Their conversation was extremely annoying, but at least it made me feel good about buying that beer. I knew right away that I have made the right choice. I was going to need it later on.
“I can’t stand people who think that men with big muscles are stupid,” said the big guy after some epic grunting at the end of his triceps pull-down set. Apparently, he was training arms that day.
“I hear you, man. I am a doctor, smart and muscular. I’m living the life, brother. Haters gonna hate,” replied the dentist.
“Yeah, man. That’s what I am talking about. Bitches, money, muscles. The Big Three. That’s life.”
“How’s your girlfriend by the way,” asked the tooth fairy.
Then, they started laughing hysterically at this cheap joke. For me, this was a sign to open my beer. It was about time anyway. I was just finishing my warm-up sets and getting ready for the work weights. I opened the damn thing, and right after the distinct “I am an open can.” sound, the two muscle warriors looked at me like I was about to set the place on fire. A heroic amount of disgust aimed towards me took over the atmosphere. I loved it.
Realistically, the beer tasted like aluminum foil, but it felt nice because it was mixed with the pleasure of disturbing those bozos’ peaceful muscle jerking.
After leg pressing, I went to the calf machine in the corner. Thereupon a new player arrived on the scene – a girl weighing about 100 pounds. She was one of those individuals who do cardio despite needing it the least.
The girl started doing all kinds of jumping jacks and even incorporated some head twisting. It looked like she was trying to get out of an imaginary fishing net around her. Each consecutive moment was making me happier about the beer in my hands. The drama started to turn into comedy thanks to it.
I couldn’t sense it, but the air around me was full of the typical beer odor, which many people link to garbage men.
It was time for weighted back hyperextensions. I’ve been doing this exercise for over 6 weeks now. It feels good so far. An extra bonus is that it’s safer than deadlifts when you are operating under alcoholic influence.
The two lifters were still there discussing politics and money while the girl was doing box squats with a 22lbs/10kg plate on top of her head. To me, she was simply trying to break her neck while contaminating the bench with her disgusting sweaty pants.
One could say that I was slightly intoxicated when I started the hyperextensions, but that was not enough to disconnect me from my surroundings. The funny thing about hyper-extensions is that they are not exactly safe for work if you catch my drift. Having your butt in the air while being unable to see who is looking at it is the definition of plug and pray.
In that particular gym, the hyperextension bench and the Roman chair are right next to each other – this could only be the work of amateurs. If two people are using the equipment simultaneously, they look like they are getting intimate.
Long story short, that crazy bitch decided to do sit-ups on the Roman chair while alternating them with jumping jacks. By the time I’d realized what was going on, it was too late. Part of her sweat gland production was already on the back of my neck. Too bad my beer was long gone. I had to move the hyperextension bench far away from that cardio junky. This kind of oversharing is not my thing.
Finally, I got out feeling happy and thankful about another successful workout. On my way out, I overheard an interesting conversation between the manager and a woman, which I think was working in a small store near the gym.
“I think that guy entered your gym with a beer, right?”
“Yes, it’s pathetic how low alcoholics can go.”
“Well, at least he is paying.”
“Yeah, he is. Money is money.”
So, what did I learn from drinking beer while leg pressing?
Absolutely nothing new.