I am less than pleasant when I wake up in the morning. I am Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey and Shitty all in one. The thought of an alarm clock shattering the silent night evokes feelings of anger and dread, similar to those I had when I tried to finish 50 Shades of Crap.
I don’t mind if a wake up from a pleasant slumber, WITHOUT the assistance of an alarm, but the early shrieks of that little piece of shit, every weekday, is enough to make me want to murder someone.
‘Cause it happens at 04h30. ‘Cause I go to the gym.
And that’s when all sympathy, empathy and other kind emotions evaporates in milliseconds. For it is self inflicted. And people don’t like sadists. Unless they’re called Christian Grey, and “He’s naked except for those soft ripped jeans, top button casually undone.” (Which is an actual quote. From the book. That made billions. Really?)
My go-to-reason for putting myself through the ordeal of attempting excessive exercise that early in the morning would be that the gym it less busy in the mornings. *insert high pitched ending as proof of uncertainty and madness* And don’t worry, I heard you, mister! I heard you mumbling under your breath, “That’s still not a fucking good reason.”
But I understand, because for a normal, average person my choices might seem borderline insane.
“Good evening, My name is Pieter and I don’t have a life.”
The point is actually, once you stop judging me, that during the hour at the gym I actually manage to gain some kind of personality. I start resembling a human, one that has the potential of being a loving husband and a great father. (I am using the word “potential” here.) It seems that there is a cosmic trade-off discussed by the gods of fitness and humanity. Receiving payment by virtue of blood, sweat and tears in exchange for common decency and giddiness.
For I start every morning session as one of the Grumpy Old Men and miraculously leave the gym as a chorus line singer in any referent Disney Movie. It’s probably the reason why the receptionist hasn’t looked me in the eye, in the almost nine years I’ve been going there. She considers my irrational behaviour to be an infectious disease.
I think I endure my hour of hell because it allows me to lose an evil façade and replaces it with a bright red smiley face, courtesy of copious amounts of sweat. I end up driving home, without the nervous twitch I had when I was driving in the opposite direction. And the people whom I almost killed on their bikes an hour earlier, can actually relax for their safety is not an issue anymore.
I enter the house with a hop and a skip, I kiss the frightened dog on his nose and shout a “Good morning Dude” to my son, hiding in the study. I offer coffee to the whole neighbourhood. And that is pretty amazing.
For the opposite would be those awful days where I wake up too late and cannot alter my mood. Running around like an escapee from Arkhum Asylum. Avoided by the wife, kids, even our gay poodle. All of them scuttling away, praying for me too leave the house quickly. I end up being the most annoyed son of a bitch (sorry mom) you’ll ever have the misfortune to meet. And I’m not proud of it. That’s why I go. To the gym. At the crack of dawn. For I know I’m NOT a morning person.
The villain waking up, turning into the World Greatest Hero after an hour at the gym. It seems my temporary schizophrenia resembles Two-Face, who, for all the Jocks following me, is the famous villain from Batman. The only difference is that he flips a coin to determine his state of mind, whilst I require one hour of heavy lifting to gain something that resembles a personality.
They say “No pain No gain”, but it does seem odd that the same rules for feeling happy too.
Note to my readers:- Wine does the same thing…