Breaking Up With the Gym: My New Year’s Anti-Resolution
Posted on December 16, 2016
Category: Zeedub Musings
Zachry Wheeler, Science Fiction Novelist

Breathe a sigh of relief, for the giant turd sandwich that is 2016 is almost over. It’s time for our new year’s resolutions, but instead of all the usual empty vows, I have decided to embrace an anti-resolution.

For 2017, I’m canceling my gym membership.

I have been a gym rat for most of my life. I enjoy group classes and general strength routines. But year after year, a constant stream of terrible people has eroded any enjoyment I get from the gym. These days, I wear a sunken hat to hide my eyes. I wear bright earphones as a “leave me alone” sign. I wear blank shirts to hide my interests. I stare at the floor between sets. And yet, people still feel the need to disrupt my precious “me time.” It slowly drove me insane. And eventually, out the door.

You know that guy who hogs a machine by texting on his phone between sets?

Yeah, screw that guy.

You know that girl with giant fake boobs who struts around looking for attention?

Yeah, screw that girl.

You know that guy who power-slams a bar/rack and scares the shit out of everyone?

Yeah, screw that guy.

You know that girl who stops in the middle of her routine to take Instagram selfies?

Yeah, screw that girl.

You know that guy who tromps around the room with that “I’m so swole” Hulk stance?

Yeah, screw that guy.

Screw the meatheads and their caveman grunting. Screw the loud-talking drama queens and their expensive outfits. Screw the cocky posers and their mirror flexing. Screw the gym bros and their oh-so-subtle bro shirts. Screw the obnoxious “music” that you can’t get away from. Screw the filthy animals who refuse to acknowledged the handy wipes.

I’m done. Done, done, done I say.

Screw the gym. I used to like you, but now you’re a giant pain in my crack. As the new year approaches, I resolve never to set foot inside you again. It’s time to enjoy the outdoors and embrace calisthenics in the comfort of my own home. My cats may be furry little narcissists, but at least they don’t strut around the house like insecure douche nozzles.

Read more:
Maintaining Author Fitness (The Physical Part)
A Year of Calisthenics: The Verdict
Screw the Scale: Rethinking Health and Fitness
Reclaiming My Workout: A Home-Based Guide

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