Salty Rants

Pumping Iron

For some reason, every time I think about going to the gym, Nicki Minaj's "Anaconda" comes to mind. I wanted to link the music video here, but then I remembered that it isn't exactly PG-13, and appropriate to a younger audience. But if you're into twerking bubble-butts and animal prints, then by all means, go to YouTube and search it up.

So, people go to the gym for one of two reasons, best illustrated by quotes from two very different people:

a) "I go to the gym because I want a body like Kim Kardashian's."

b) "I go to the gym because Dr. Shapani said that if I don't lose weight soon, I may die of a heart attack."

If you didn't quite get the innuendo, I'll explain what I mean.

In the first scenario, it's clear that the speaker is insecure about their body. Otherwise, why would they go to such lengths to get a Kardashian body? It would be much easier—and less expensive—to do other things with your time, like crocheting or stalking your ex's new girlfriend's Facebook. But because the media constantly bombards us with images of the "perfect body", unattainable in the physical realm, many of us spend our entire lives striving to reach this impossible standard of beauty. 

This means going to the gym every day, buying protein shakes that taste like shit, and even resorting to plastic surgery. Society has taught us that anything other than perfection is bad, and, unfortunately, us mere mortals are anything but perfect. We are the most imperfect beings in existence; there are cats that look better than us. Personally, I find myself falling into this category—I wish I had Beyoncé's body. That's why I go to the gym!

The second scenario is health-related and has nothing to do with society's warped perception of beauty. Some people can be overweight and be perfectly healthy, whilst others, not so much. Weight becomes a problem when it starts to affect your way of life—that's why some decide to hit the gym. There are other health reasons that might prompt someone into joining (postural problems, rehabilitation of some sort, etc.) and these fall in this scenario as well. 

Moving on, I've joined the gym ever since I've stopped playing sports on a regular basis. I prefer having a summer bod all year round (yes, even during Yeti season), and as many other teenage girls out there, I'm insecure as fuck about my default settings, and upgrade regularly through the addition of new weights, exercises, etc. 

"But today's rant isn't about me," I tell you as I lift my backpack into a gym locker—it always has to be in the section in front of the blue doors (the ones that lead to the bathrooms/showers/kids changeroom) because I have the memory of a goldfish and would otherwise have to write it down. 

"Who, then?" You snap the lock shut and swing your towel around your neck. I do the same and turn towards you, an evil glint in my eye.

"Them," I say, nodding my head towards the corridor. You look at me for a moment, confused and startled, but then your mouth forms an 'o' as it starts to dawn on you. 

"Them..." you repeat with uncertainty—at this point I'm unsure about whether you actually understood who I was referring to, you're playing dumb, or are actually just clueless. 

"Whatever." I roll my eyes and after taking a swig from my water bottle, I start making my way to the exit. There's no point in dilly-dallying; you'll find out what I mean, soon enough. Two flights of stairs later—and ten minutes of me complaining about the puddles left behind by the swimmers—we're on the cyclettes and pedalling as if we're getting chased by a crazed sasquatch.

 I've chosen this complicated piece of machinery because of its strategic location—it's positioned in a place where I can survey the realm of the gym rats, without being creepy. After all, it's normal for me to avert my gaze every once in a while to that hot stud working the dumbbells. I'm only human.