Shaka Dixon
W
hen I go to the gym, it seems that half the people work out, while use the mirrors to admire themselves.
Los Angeles is one of the few places where the gym serves as a social gala.
For instance, my girlfriend won’t put on make-up when we go out with my friends (this wasn’t an easy catch, I just want to see the fruits of my labors), but waiting for her to get dolled up for the gym is a trying experience.
For all I know, the sessions with her personal trainer could be more personal than I would prefer.
I haven’t worked out since high school football, were the silence was only broken by the occasional squirrel joke.
The gym’s cordiality is an irritant. Especially, when these half-naked middle-aged men come up to me and ask me to spot them.
The answer is no! I’ve seen the ‘Catch a Predator’ segment on “Dateline.” I know these things happen.
Even worse, are the lines surrounding the drinking fountains. Creatine addicts need their 20 or so gallons of water a day.
Why should I be inconvenienced by someone’s dependency? I subscribe to traditional values. I must address something else. that is peculiar to Los Angeles.
Men need to abstain from short shorts. I subscribe to traditional values, unlike many of you heathens.
When the most honorable Rev. Jerry Falwell talks of our moral bankruptcy, why do we turn away? Permissiveness enables the proliferation of short shorts.
When I can ditch the lady, I go the gym with the Homies around 7 p.m. with no intention of working out.
By 7 p.m. it is soccer moms galore. I will admit that our intentions are far from pure. I remember learning something about how boys secretly lust for their mother and that in turn leads to bloodlust against their father. Could this be a natural outgrowth of that theory?
As society conditions you against incest, do we become fond of the other’s mother?
Call it the Dixonian M.I.L.F. theory.
In all seriousness, these women go on a tear. For instance, I accompanied my stepmother to the gym. In about an hour and change she went through around eight machines and a two-mile run. She was all business.
Her veins were bulging and everything. It was quite emasculating. She was going at it like Rocky, while I resembled one of those overweight kids on MTV’s “MADE.”
Now, my girlfriend she is a different story.
Every week she will buy a new work-out outfit. As long as I’m not paying, I’m fine with it, but she honestly sits in the gym and talks to her friends.
I could be fine with this, but she substitutes fitness for a near-anorexic regiment. Breakfast for her is toast.
Lunch is granola bar, and dinner is some low-carbohydrate dinner. Again, this is a rather low-cost diet, so I’m fine with it. I am aware that muscle gain meals can even be delivered to your door, but until I start going a bit harder in the gym, I’m not going to commit to any diet plan yet. I do have some friends that follow a strict diet plan like that, and they apparently feel great!
Here is my peeve.
She forces me to take to those horribly expensive Italian restaurants that line Ventura Boulevard. It is as if the $20 charge for spaghetti and meatballs is warranted because you order it by its Italian name.
Now getting back to the ball-and-chain, it is customary that the second bite will bring on worries about her figure.
If I’m spending $70 a pop on these little excursions, she better resemble Fat Albert upon exit. If she was worried about her, I’m fine with Subway.
Or even better, why can’t we free ourselves of pride, what’s wrong with a soup kitchen.
I blame it on all the captains out there. Too much is expected of us.
I’ll end by saying this: the more my life becomes tied to the gym the more my sanity seems to wane.
I think there’s a connection.