Today I was at the Soviet-style local gym, which I have detailed in a previous post . Instead of training to smash Rocky’s skull with my 2000 psi punch, however, I am slaving away trying to burn off the extra 10 lbs of solid fat I packed on during my Hawk Wild training. It is an uphill battle, but today I realized that maybe my physique isn’t so bad after all.
I was sweating on the treadmill like a 45-year-old soccer mom about to enter Bret Michael’s dressing room, pacing myself to the rhythmic wheezing of the liver-spotted geezers on the exercise bikes, when I saw a turrible, turrible sight.
You see…weeks ago, I was walking home from the gym when I saw a fatter, Eastern European version of Tony Siragusa jumping rope on the sidewalk next to one of the busiest streets in Chicago during the middle of the day. He was easily 300 lbs and looked like he was pregnant with Octo-mom her kids, and yet he was exercising in public without a shirt. Watching his swollen belly flop around like an Italian soccer player was mesmerizing, but I avoided total hypnosis because he could only jump three or four times before he stopped for a rest. I have no idea why he was doing this abhorrent routine in public, but I will give him a pass because he’s a Euro. At the time, I admired him for exercising in order to avoid dropping dead from a heart attack before the end of the week.
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