Ripped: The Sequel
That’s right I went back for more. Even though it took me three days, post class, to be able to handle most menial tasks like washing my hair or tying my shoes, I wanted more…
As most people will admit the toughest part about going to the gym is, going to the gym. Once you’ve got your clothes on, your motivation starts to rise…The self portrait in your mind starts to take the form you wish it appeared outside of your mind. Now that spring has landed in the city, it makes the days so much longer and more enjoyable. No longer is the sun done for the day at 5pm.
The sun still shining bright after leaving work at 7pm just helps keep that butt off the couch. Not to mention it’s those same long days that remind us that this brisk cool air will soon be replaced by the warmth, humidity, and The Hamptons (So I hear) that make up a summer in New York City.
As I walked into the studio, I acted as if I had done it a million times before. Should there be ‘Ripped’ virgins (Oh, that doesn’t sound very pleasant) in the class, I wasn’t going to let them know I wasn’t a pro. After all, my muscles had stopped twitching and my walk had become normal again since last week’s class.
As I scoped out my classmates and found my little spot that would soon turn into a sweaty hell, I noticed no knock outs. Which was a good thing, because that’s exactly what would happen to me if there were, there are mirrors everywhere…Even though it wasn’t the best looking class I did notice something different from the previous week. Another dude!
Who was this guy and why was he in my class? There goes the chance of me taking the weights down a notch from week one. This would be like that terrible show on the ESPN, ‘Worlds Strongest Man’ competition. A duel! And just as I suspected, like some stupid jungle animal I would grunt, moan, and elevate my chest to its fullest throughout the class.
The one and only familiar face was that of the, once again, tightly clothed, sports bra wearing, cute little jacket around her waist, positive minded, fist pumping instructor. Her count downs were long and drawn out and often times out of order. After starting at 15, counting down, how does she always seem to end up at 20? She lifts as we do, but she smiles and yells at the same time. I can only think “is this woman fucking sick? What’s wrong with her? Does she like actually enjoy this feeling?” I’m ready to jump out the one opened window.
But much like the first class I made it through and I am almost unable to type this post. With that being said, I’m going to try and continue this healthy streak and have a banana for breakfast. (But I really want a muffin, AKA cake you can eat for breakfast).
Thanks for listening