When is enough enough?
There are some huge guys at the gym. I mean these guys are enormous! They look like large bundles of thick rope walking around. How do these guys find suits to fit them? How do they turn over in bed? Who ties their shoes for them? And it's not just the guys. There are women too who sculpt and tone until they look like they've been poured from plastic. All of which begs the question: when is enough enough?
I go to the gym three or four times a week. Becaue of my schedule I can't always go at the same time, but no matter when I show up, there are about half a dozen or eight people who are always there, pumping iron or running on treadmills like they were trying to get away from something. How do they find the time? Don't they have work - or homes - to go to? They don't look particularly stressed about their apparent unemployment, nor do they strike me as lottery winners. But there they are, sometimes at noon, or in the morning, or in the evening, and apparently all weekend long. They lift weights the size of volkswagens. Their shoulders are like cliff ledges, their legs - well, truth be told, their legs are often very spindly. The bundles of ropes totter around on sticks. I blame the condition of their legs on the height of the mirrors. These guys like to look at themselves when they hoist the iron, but most of the mirrors extend just to the point where you can only see yourself from the waist up.
Anyway. How do these people know when they are done? When will they look in the mirror and say, "That's it! I'm exactly how I want to be. I can stop now." Can they tell that some of them are getting over-done? That they are starting to look like caricatures of themselves? Telling them seems like a bad idea, but I feel that someone ought to come along, tap one of them on their massive shoulders and say: "That's it, pal. You're done. You're perfect the way you are. One more curl or bench press, and you'll have crossed the line from athelete to freak. Go home. Have a beer. Watch a little TV. Or better yet, go for a walk if you still can."
I go to the gym three or four times a week. Becaue of my schedule I can't always go at the same time, but no matter when I show up, there are about half a dozen or eight people who are always there, pumping iron or running on treadmills like they were trying to get away from something. How do they find the time? Don't they have work - or homes - to go to? They don't look particularly stressed about their apparent unemployment, nor do they strike me as lottery winners. But there they are, sometimes at noon, or in the morning, or in the evening, and apparently all weekend long. They lift weights the size of volkswagens. Their shoulders are like cliff ledges, their legs - well, truth be told, their legs are often very spindly. The bundles of ropes totter around on sticks. I blame the condition of their legs on the height of the mirrors. These guys like to look at themselves when they hoist the iron, but most of the mirrors extend just to the point where you can only see yourself from the waist up.
Anyway. How do these people know when they are done? When will they look in the mirror and say, "That's it! I'm exactly how I want to be. I can stop now." Can they tell that some of them are getting over-done? That they are starting to look like caricatures of themselves? Telling them seems like a bad idea, but I feel that someone ought to come along, tap one of them on their massive shoulders and say: "That's it, pal. You're done. You're perfect the way you are. One more curl or bench press, and you'll have crossed the line from athelete to freak. Go home. Have a beer. Watch a little TV. Or better yet, go for a walk if you still can."
posted by Millie Beagle at 6:45 pm
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