Oh, I can point fingers. I could blame my iPad which has been subsuming an inordinate amount of my leisure time. I can blame P90X, which has yet to deliver on its promise of Goslingesque abs without ever leaving the house. Cool Ranch taco shells. Girl Scouts, obviously. The list goes on and on.
My partner JB, on the other hand, is a different story. Giving up alcohol for Lent and hiring a personal trainer, he's reached a stage of fitness that comes naturally to every out-of-shape person who's lost five pounds... He's become an insufferable, holier-than-thou health nut. Did you know the body is a temple? Evidently "temple" is what a sloth pit looks like after you sweep up the Pringles crumbs and recycle all the empty wine bottles.
JB's idea of an intervention was putting the scale in front of the refrigerator. Subtle. The final straw came when, while reviewing the American Express bill and dramatically hitting the "tabulate" button on his clackity printing calculator, he looked across the table over his reading glasses and asked, "This charge from 'LA Fitness'... Should I dispute it?"
This is my second week back at the gym after months of physical neglect. The only part of my body that doesn't ache is my blame-pointing finger. But hours on the elliptical machine at my gay gym have given me time to think. It's alarming by how quickly things start to go south the minute I stop working out.
For example, black gym socks... when did that happen? Sure, I was one of the first. But only because I'd forget to pack white socks and had to make do with what I wore to the office. I certainly didn't feel any vibe from my fellow gym-goers at the time that I was being avant-garde. Not when they strike me more as the type that uploads "gym fail" videos to YouTube.
It was never my intention to start a fashion trend. At least not this one.