This Is Indulgent

The motivation to improve one's body physically defies explanation. The body is obviously a machine in working order if you are able to even consider improving it. The explanation of your need to change that body at the expense of comfort confounds those who view the state of their carnality good enough. You'll get no explanations today. I make excuses about needing to be in good shape and requiring absolute physical readiness imminently, but it has nothing to do with that on any deeper level.

Today I sat on a bench surrounded by the smells of humanity, and I very much hate the vast majority or humanities offlacatorially detectable qualities, and fought a battle. I won't say it was a battle with myself, or with and ideal, or even a battle with weakness. The battle was with two chunks of iron. I sat on the bench with them in my hands resting heavily on my thighs. I could feel their weight settling onto the ciclismo hardened quadriceps that I love in a very vain corner of my soul. The iron keeps sinking farther into them while I try to match my breathing, my thoughts, and every vibrating breath of my metabolic monsters that are aching in my chest to Lemmy Kilmeister's invitation to riot.

I lay back, intensity screaming from the large muscle groups that have already taken a beating. The last four sets, every lift and breath and focus was leading up to this. These weights have always sat next to my last maximum ability. When I would grab the hexagonal barbells to the left of these, the greater size of the weights in my hand would bourgeon and they would glow in haughty distaste for me. For my inability to master them.

I pull them away from my thigh and let them rest on my chest. With one last breath closely monitored escaping me, I move the weights outboard until their heft is held by my shoulders and chest. That's the way I like it baby, I don't want to live forever.

I shove. There's no need to control the speed, I haven't the power to move them any faster than a steady crawl. But the crawl is steady. Power chords ring in my ears as the two weights meet above my straining neck and ring out like bells. Four more. My spotter is ready for my shoulders tortured in their short life to fail me. The weights move up again with a determination. They ring again as iron and iron meet above. One more. Slow and unsteady, but still lifting. The weights rest on my bent arms, my chest feels torn under their gravity. My spotter is bored. I hate spotters.

I look up at the ceiling and tell him, "Two more."

Steadier, breathe out going up, in coming down. My awareness of the room is gone. There is nothing but me, Lemmy and the dumbbells. Two more down, the last straining. "One more."

I hate people who make noise in the gym. I don't grunt or yelp or make any of those other noises men make. I blow air out of my nose, clench my jaw and shove. And don't forget the joker. I get the weight up without effort, but with my chest failing.

I bring them down as I inhale. They sit on my chest while I kick with my feet to lift my body back up to sitting. The weights hit the floor, small and insignificant. They no longer matter as the stench of men and exertion touches me and the four walls of the dungeon gym pull in out of the dark.