Last night was a cross-training day. So I hit the gymnasium.
Not too long ago, when I used the word “gymnasium,” someone commented “I haven’t heard someone use the word ‘gymnasium’ since elementary school.”
It’s true, most people say they’re going to the “gym.” And I hate saying that. Because I feel like that’s too often followed with talk of really pounding out some sweet sets and reps and max deadlift and blah blah blah. You can go to the gymnasium to exercise. You go to the “gym” to chat and carry around one of those bottles with the wire ball inside because you’re forearms are so blasted that you need a mechanical assist to shake up a protein shake.
As much as I enjoy going to the gymnasium, I hate talking about it. Because it’s just associated with a bad crowd.
But then I think, waitaminute, I think everything I enjoy is associated with a bad crowd.
Gym: meathead morons.
Running: weird hippie types who are supposedly getting all fucked up on endorphins or something.
Pabst Blue Ribbon: hipster jagoffs making sure everyone can see that their beer choices are very proletariat.
Fancy coffee: There’s a place where I had a black coffee served to me on a wooden slab along with about 2 ounces of water in a precious little glass. Gimme a break. I like good tasting coffee, but that’s not really about a tasty beverage. It’s adding a bunch of peripheral business around a pretty simple process.
The National: This is a band I enjoy. Also, when I saw them in concert, I’ve never been in a concert where so many people were looking around in directions other than the fucking stage. Just seeing who’s there, whether they know someone? I don’t know. All I know is that when you’re standing only 8 inches behind someone, it’s weird when they turn around. It feels like you’re about to kiss.
Chuck Palahniuk books: Meathead idiots who think punching each other is a good idea and also the focal point of a novel. These are people who don’t only miss subtext but would probably argue about whether or not it actually exists.
Comic Books: nerds who mostly exist to complain about the ways in which the film versions of their favorite books are not down-to-the-detail identical.
Video Games: People who we have to thank for the large-mouth soda bottles as a regular bottle opening wasn’t a speedy enough delivery system for Mountain Dew.
Golf: Rich old men who think it’s acceptable to wear a Denver Broncos polo to their dad’s funeral.
Writing: Drunken degenerates.
…
Wait. That last one is bad. But probably close enough. At least it’s the one I have the least problem with. Good enough!