Penn Station
Today, children, we're going to talk a little about getting a life. Now, I don't want you people to get the idea that just by telling me to do something, I'm going to instantly stop writing this column and go out and do whatever it was you said, no matter how ridiculous or stupid your idea might be. Truth is, I'll stop writing this column at any time, for any reason, and often no reason at all. So get that idea out of your head pronto.

This particular suggestion, however, struck me as just the sort of challenge that I'm up to. I figure, if I can show this guy that I can get a life whenever I feel like it, then I'll have proven myself to an audience of, what, ten, twenty million out there? And then I can comfortably spend the rest of my days sitting here writing about moldy sinks and piles of cat puke and how the way I clean my couch is by flipping the cushions over. So I took the challenge.

Getting a life, when you are the sad sack of pus that I am, is a multi-faceted, multi-pronged operation that cannot be entered into lightly, although in this case, it definitely was. Today I will address the easiest prong. Then maybe later tonight I'll address the hardest prong. If you catch my drift. Heh, heh.

The first prong was dealing with the fact that I haven't actually expended any physical energy since long before my withered brain muscles can remember. My innards were rapidly becoming as Jell-O, or perhaps a wet sack of cooked macaroni. Being cooked macaroni is no way to go through life, so I decided it was time to "shape up", and perhaps become a nice pack of dried fettucini, or lasagna noodles. Then I could top myself with a layer of ricotta, a lovely home-made tomato sauce, and melted mozzarella. Then I could eat myself with a fine Chianti, or perhaps a non-alcoholic beer, since I am into fitness now.

Now, back in wherever the hell it was I was living a year ago, I joined a gym. They had two things there: Bike. Things to lift. So I would go there like a trooper, once a day, and rode the bike, and lifted things. I became concerned for my physical well-being when I noticed that I was beginning to nod off to sleep during bike-riding and thing-lifting because of the mind-numbing tedium of these two activities. Also, the effectiveness of my workouts was tempered somewhat by the fact that right next to the gym was a bar, where I would meet up with all the non-fit losers after my kick-ass workout, and chow down on potato skins and seven beers.

That would not work this time. I needed an activity. One that perhaps took place outdoors, that would let me both enjoy the fresh, spring air, see new sights, and get the same cardiovascular benefit that stationary-bike-riding offers, while cruising around God's creation, living life in the freedom of the wilderness, and feeling at one with the universe under a bright, easy, crystal-clear sky.

Racquetball!

Other than taking place indoors, breathing nothing but old sweat vapors, seeing nothing but blank walls and my own blood, living life in the confines of a room smaller than my apartment, and feeling at one with the floor, this seemed the natural choice.

I've been playing for one week now, and I'm really noticing the difference already. I mean, before I started playing, I would get winded after climbing up a flight of stairs. Now I can barely walk to the elevator. Before, I would feel pains in my back and legs whenever I tried to do anything physical. Now I feel pain everywhere at all times. But I'm getting a life! I'll be dead in a week, but damn, what a life it will have been! Here, look at this bruise! No wait, that's a welt. There, there's the bruise. Cool, huh?

I'm making it sound unpleasant. And it is, which proves what an effective writer I am. But every little thing that takes place in that court feels like a box full of chocolates compared to the real pain of joining a gym, which is...

Joining a gym.

I don't know why they won't let you just join a gym. I knew before I walked in that I wanted to join. Why would I go in there if I didn't want to join? I even said, as soon as I walked in the door, "I want to join."

"Okay, let me go get someone to give you the tour!"
"No, I just want to jo-"
"But you have to go on the tour!"
"I don't wa-"
"YOU'RE GOING ON THE GODDAMN TOUR YOU FAT PIECE OF FART!!"
"Yes, ma'am."

So the tour begins... "Here's our racquetball courts, which I understand is the only reason you've decided to come here! Now let's move onto fifty-eight other rooms of stuff that you specifically mentioned you had no interest in, including wiping your butt!"

I think it's safe to say that you can tell a person that "there's a weight room", and they've pretty much got the idea. Apparently these people had had some really bad experiences with that sort of assumption, though, because they would rather have set their own children on fire than not show me the damn weight room. "Look! Weights!! And you can watch TV!" I asked, "Great, can I just watch TV?" (*) (**)

So the tour droned on and on, and night fell, and everyone everywhere else in the world had already gone to sleep, but we had to stay up, because I had to see the locker room.

You know, it's hard enough getting a life as it is. And it's definitely hard enough getting me into a gym as it is. So after a long, hard day at work, and a three-hour tour (a three-hour tour), perhaps we could have skipped the part where the prospective member gets to get a big ol' face-full of HAIRY MAN ASS.

"This is the locker room, where you can look forward to seeing HAIRY MAN ASS no matter what day or time you come in here. Hey, there's Bob! Hey Bob, show this guy your HAIRY MAN ASS, will you? And make sure he sees your OLD DROOPY PENIS AND BALLS, too!!" It would be great to feel so self-confident and oblivious to the nausea of others that I could just walk around with my HAIRY MAN ASS and OLD DROOPY PENIS AND BALLS swinging around for the world to see. But I've not yet reached that point, so I find it very noticeable that if I get locker #182, rest assured that some guy at #181 is gonna be bending over to pick up something under #180.

So I don't go in there anymore. If I wear a three-piece suit to work, that's what I'm wearing into the racquetball court at the end of the day.

Jesus.

.

(*) This part is actually true.
(**) No, wait, I mean, everything I wrote, and have ever written, is actually true. What was I thinking?