I've never quite understood the "going through the motions" people in a gym. I mean if you are going to take the time to go to a gym, then you might as well workout. I was watching someone whose workout was so scripted there wasn't the slightest exertion. I was catching my breath in between sets of incline dumbbell presses. The college fitness center was relatively empty at 3:30 in the afternoon. Being a Community College there were a few "community members" (senior citizens), even fewer faculty and staff, and a smattering of students. As I am closer to 40 rather than 30 my lifting has slowed slightly, but I still can push iron with the big boys.
The Talking Heads Burning Down the House wafted through my iPod as I grabbed two 100 pound dumbbells and made my way over to the incline bench. Resting the weights on my quads I took a deep breath and used my legs to hoist the weight upwards as I leaned back into the bench. By my seventh rep I was feeling the burn, my chest tight. Squeezing my pecs I slowly lowered the weight, inhaling on the way down. Just as the dumbbells reached my chest I exhaled forcefully and exploded upwards, my chest screaming in protest. I kept my arms extended for a few seconds, gulping in air, psyching myself out for one last rep. Finally, I lowered the weight again, and once again exhaled with a groan and exploded upwards, my muscles wavered, arms shaking, chest quivering David Byrne encouraging me.
All wet hey you might need a raincoat
Shape down Dreams walking in broad daylight
Three hundred sixty five degrees
Burning down the house
Pushing through my protesting muscles I finished the 9th rep and after controlling the weight down to my chest, let them drop with a loud "thump" onto the padded mats. I was the only one in the free-weight area, and most of the other people were glancing over at the sounds of my workout.
"It's called working out" I said to them silently.
Taking a gulp of creatine I glanced up and caught the eye of the same girl I saw walking outside my office the other morning. She was the olive skinned beauty who had been tugging her micro shorts down in a vain attempt to cover her ass.
If she looked good in her shorts she was to-die-for in workout clothes. Long dirty-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail which was fed through the back of a baseball hat. She wore black skin-tight Lycra shorts and a matching sports bra. I don't know if it is because I have been a lifter for so long, but sports bras and work out clothes just really do it for me. This girl had the perfect ass, hell, the prefect body. She was toned, and hard, with a round tight ass, flat stomach (with the ubiquitous piercing which I still find sexy as hell) and perfect tits, high, well rounded, with not a bit of sag.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies
"Shit" I thought to myself "She's never even heard of Lord Byron."
I realized I was staring and averted my eyes, just as she did the same
"Not bad old man" I thought, "at least she was looking at you too."