We went to the gym again this weekend. I think that makes twice that we’ve been in April, so for anyone out there who was looking for a role model or motivational buddy — I’m not it.
But I have to ask why the exercise classes are all in the morning. On a weekend. Honestly, wouldn’t turnout be better if you had it at, say, 4 PM on a Sunday? It gives people a chance to snooze a little, laze about the house, and then maybe bolster up the courage to head to a gym where they can gather in a small darkened room and leap about swinging big weighted sticks at each other.
I am, not surprisingly, in great pain today, and I blame at least half of that on the fact that these classes are at a simply unholy hour on a weekend morning. I blame the other half on the fact that they had one light on in the whole room during this particular class, so I was straining to see my hand in front of my face, let alone the ass of the person in front of me that I was trying to avoid parking my foot in during one of the particularly active leg exercises.
I have to believe that, in a few hundred years, achaeologists or anthorpologists or anybody who actually gives a rat’s ass about what we happened to do in our spare time in this day and age will look at this particular ritual in much the same way we currently regard the worship of cats. Fascinating, but hard to fathom in one’s daily life.
Image by kk+