Go ahead and ask 2008 Adam if he’d ever starve and torture himself to look good for a wedding, like those idiots on his fiancée’s shows on that Slice channel.
He’d just laugh at you, tiny bits of smoked meat pinging out of his maw. For I was sure I would never work out extra hard or diet for the sake of my wedding photos. I look how I look and that’s that, went my attitude.
And yet. Things change when you’re actually faced with being a fat groom. I am overweight by something like 25 pounds, and have been during most of the decade since I reached 21 and my metabolism turned traitor. Now I want to run back the fat clock.
So I set a pioneer foot on the alien shore of a gym last week for the first time in many years, the new membership being a necessity now that I no longer live in a building with a rudimentary exercise room and a pool.
And alien indeed is the gym for me, because I simply am not the same kind of creature as those obsessed with physical activity. The gym employees don’t understand my Earth banter, which spooks me. People (Canadians!) who don’t laugh when I make a good joke scare me more than anything.
Another way homo gymnasicus and I are different species: Exercise has always been to me one big meh, a chore with a place on the pleasure scale above going to the dentist but below doing laundry.
My close male friends from high school now bond by the kilometre as often as they do by the pint, but I absolutely loathe running and won’t do it even for the sake of friendship. Yes, I’m lazy, but that isn’t totally my fault; genetics played a role by apparently giving me almost nothing but fast-twitch muscles.
To borrow a phrase from The Onion, I’m powerful good at punching. Endurance sports, not so much. My limbs fill up pretty quickly with the throb of lactic acid and I’ve never, ever experienced anything like a runner’s high. Also, I bet I can eat more than you.
All of that being said, I’d kind of like to make it past 60, and look better to boot. So work out I must.
It will be nice to shed that Molson muscle and look suave in my wedding day tux. My fiancée poked gentle fun at my “one-pack” tummy last night. She also called it Bubba Keg. For the sake of dignity alone it’s time to muster the discipline to reverse the fatty sins of my twenties and chart a painful and humourless course to planet fitness.
Image courtesy of Giles Clement.