My wife has quite irritatingly lost somewhere near six gazillion pounds over the last year through no conscious effort of her own and has suddenly achieved the figure of her youth. She smugly announced recently that she currently weighs the same that she did on our wedding day. I, contrarily, weigh somewhat more than I did that blessed day; somewhere in the vicinity of a side of beef more. I wear my wedding tux pants like leg warmers on cold Buffalo nights while dreaming of what my washboard abs might look like without all the wash piled on top.
I finally tired of breathing like an emphysematic chain smoker after minimal activity about a month ago, walked the previously unfathomable chasm across the street (approximately fifty feet), and purchased a membership. This was just six weeks ago. So much has transpired since then. Such pain. Such agony.
After three weeks of frantic exercise, staring at the "no pain, no gain" sign emblazoned on the gym wall, sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee, I have achieved two significant milestones: I lost ten pounds and herniated a disc in my lumbar spine. I spent two days in the hospital enduring stern looking nurses injecting massive doses of steroids and narcotics in my veins like a major league baseball player on a Toronto holiday. After nearly three weeks of walking like Quasimoto, I have finally regained the ability to walk erect, and to sit comfortably in the car while eating a cruller.
It has been about a week since the pain has gone, and the gym taunts me. I tell my friends and family that I will go back, that it is only a matter of time before I'm back on the treadmill and perspiring profusely. I have convinced myself that I have kept the ten pounds off. But who am I kidding. That gym is a house of horror, and I'm in the throes of post-traumatic stress. I'm going to Timmy's.