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Don’t go to the gym

Or, you know, go to the gym

Photo by Richard R on Unsplash

Do not read any further if you’re the kind of person who runs at full sprint on the treadmill before juggling kettleballs at the gym. This essay is not for you or your glistening muscles.

Instead of wasting your time on the next 600 or so words, feel free to cartwheel back to your local fitness hut to crush it. I want you to crush it and, more importantly, I want you to be happy crushing it, whatever “it” happens to be. I’m assuming you’d want to crush a workout. But I mean, this morning, I crushed a plate of toaster waffles.

This is one of many differences between me and you, an imaginary gym enthusiast with a superhero’s body. You live to work out, and I eat pancakes. I’ve seen your type at the gym I joined, which I rarely go to, and you’re really into your routines and reps and excessive, even show-offy, perspiration. Sweat isn’t pain leaving the body. Sweat is just venerated urine.

I am now done addressing humans at the peak of physical excellence.

I will now address the rest of us.

If you don’t want to go to the gym, don’t. Maybe working out in a public medieval torture chamber of exercise devices will be mandatory in some future dystopia. But not now, not…