Yes I’m a member. Of a gym. Humans who obviously doesn’t have a life. Some might even say I belong to a weird cult who gets up every morning and worship the gods of fitness by offerings of sweat and fat, generated by too much tofu, kale, tuna, brocolli and all other tasty treats. A sub-culture chasing an unattainable dream of creating better versions of ourselves, with an elusive six-pack tucked away under layers of desperation and vanity.
Or maybe we just prefer to be able to climb a flight of stairs or walk through an average sized mall without feeling like the oxygen supply to our lungs have been cut off permanently.
The truth is that I need this moderate commitment to fitness if only to prevent me from killing some of my coworkers with a stapler. Or a computer screen. Or my frigging SUV. It’s my therapy. Continue reading