I Work Out


luke-workoutOr maybe I just hang out. 

By Luke Robinson

You guys work out, right? You sure look like you do. Yeah, you! You look awesome! (Let it never be said that I don’t know how to butter up my audience).

I work out too… Some… Kinda…Well, I work at working out.

Okay, okay. I go to the gym and meander about the facility just long enough for people to think I work out. Is that what you wanna hear?

Sadly, that is exactly what I do. I throw on some old mesh basketball shorts and a T-shirt that has more stains than a Home Depot wood decking sample book just to wander aimlessly about the fitness equipment area.

The only crunches I do have the word “Nestle” in front of them. I don’t ever work on my triceps; it’s more like I should  “try, ‘cept” I don’t want to. If Charles Atlas were alive today he’d kick sand in my face soooooo fast…and there’d be nothing I could do about it.

For my so-called exercise “routine” I just randomly pick various machines that have interchangeable handles and pulleys and straps. It’s kind of like 50 Shades of Grey minus the sex meets My Big Fat Greek Wedding minus the Greek wedding.

Occasionally I will get cocky and amble towards the old-fashioned bench press to give it a whirl. Of course, it is always after some high school senior-to-be linebacker just pumped 400 pounds of iron while leaving behind enough sweat to fill a Valley Avenue pothole. I have to use a wet/dry vac on the bench before I rent the backhoe to remove the weights he left.

Watching me bench press must be a hoot for the folks who look at the security cam footage in the morning at the gym. Before I even pump fake at lifting, it takes me a good 22 seconds to get situated on the mildly cushioned bench. Once I do get positioned correctly I think, “Man, I could fall asleep right here.”

That’s when I have to reach back into the bowels of my brain to find the motivation to make me lift that 45 pound bar with those two 45 pound discs on it (okay, okay. They aren’t that heavy). I hit “play” on my iPhone’s music list and start pumping iron.

Using my music collection to spark a fire under me can be a hit-or-miss proposition. As a 44-year-old with the maturity of someone one-third that age, my musical taste runs the gamut from Jay-Z to Paul Simon. “99 Problems” might get me through three sets of legs lifts, but “Still Crazy After All These Years” only exercises my nostalgia and stymies my physical output.

This last time I clicked on my playlist Eryka Badu’s “Call Tyrone” blared through my ear buds. Quite ironic in the sense that on bench press rep number seven I wanted to “call Tyrone” myself…or “Steve” or “Jack” or “Frank” or anyone to get this damn heavy bar off of my chest!

See, even before working out my body betrays me. I have the arms and torso of a used Stretch Armstrong figure and the legs of Tyrion Lanster from Game of Thrones separated only by a surprisingly rotund belly. When standing straight, I look like a salamander that is trying to digest an old word processor. It makes bench pressing…an issue.

My overall lack of strength factors in, too, but I would rather blame it on something out of my control like my inherited physique.

Anyhoo, here’s hoping I see you at the gym. Feel free to stop and talk; I won’t be doing anything.

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