Gym rats

I'm still sick!  Sue says I got sick on September 4, so, like, I'm totally tired of it now.  I've missed some workouts and some meals, so I feel all soft and doughy.  I have still put on some mass, but told my trainer this week that I might not compete in the Sunshine this year.   This must end.

There is a new gym coming into Abacoa -- the little development where my campus is.  I went in yesterday and met the new owner.  The dumbell rack only goes up to 80 pounds, which is too low for me.  The guy, thinking he had nabbed himself a Shakespeare guy, said,  "We are going to be a gym for good people.  We're not going to cater to the "musclehead crowd."

"Well. that let's me out," I said.

"No, no, I don't mean decent bodybuilders.  I mean those guys who grunt and use a lot of profanity."

(Do I even need to write these words?)

"That let's me out!"

The thing I like about the gym is that weight lifting, like boxing, has blue-collar roots.  I like the grunters and the mouth-filling oaths.  In some ways it is the antidote to being a college professor.  Mostly, this is because the weights and mirrors are absolutely unequivocal.  You can either move it or you can't: you're either getting hyper-muscled, you're either getting lean, or you're not. 

I don't know how the new gym is going to do here.  Everything else in Abacoa is a mess, so why wouldn't this be also.  But if it is going after a yuppie, New Yorker-reading on the machines crowd, I won't be in there much.