It is hard to know whether going back to the gym just before moving from my apartment (to a shared condo) was a phenomenally excellent idea, or fantastically retarded one. Despite the knowledge that having done so means I have a bit more stamina for this epic event, at the moment, I'm leaning toward retarded. Nevertheless, I know that all the soreness I feel is the precursor to what? That's right! HOTNESS!
Oh yes, I know I have a long haul ahead of me fraught with peril and antiperspirant and constantly parading naked chicks that bring me back to my "dressing in the gym bathroom" days of high school. If I thought my teenage classmates' bodies were intimidating then, going to a gym in the heart of the entertainment industry is, well... well it's just fucking worse! The other night as I peeked in the door of the sauna on the way to the jacuzzi, this was the thought that crossed my deeply heterosexual mind, "I've never seen so much tit and muff in my fucking LIFE! Can these women not put on a fucking TOWEL?!?!?!" Maybe if I thought I was the shit, I wouldn't wear a towel either. I would, however, ensure that my purr fur was in check, unlike one of the naked broads in the sauna that night.
What makes this adventure more fun and interesting, is that I am doing my workouts with my friend CB who is the kind of thin most of the people we are working out with wish they could be and for her it's virtually effortless. The two of us together catch a lot of attention as we make our way to the workout area that overlooks the 101 and while I would love to think it's because all the fine Hollywoodians are revelling in our beauty and happy to see us amongst the sweating masses, I doubt that's it. We look like "before" and "after" gone EXTREME, which as most of you know, is something Hollywood is pretty famous for. While eyes seem to be appreciating CB's taut, perfectly flat stomach, flabless thighs and minimalist chest, as they make their way to me, the looks change from ones of appreciation to almost abject horror. Once upon a time that would have been enough to make me feel uncomfortable and sad and would be my excuse to not want to go. Now, it inspires me to keep going, to keep forging my own view of myself and to base my actions on that view. It's nice to have roomfuls of hot, sweaty, young Los Angelian hunkybutts look at me as though they wish I'd go back to Bally's, and not feel daunted... to not really care. Frankly, that drives home the fact that my journey really isn't about them, some imaginary guy that will reap the rewards of all my labors or even you (much as I value your opinion!). It's about me and what I think of myself. And as I sit here, revving myself up to go do the last big push of moving out of my apartment, feeling sore and achy, I feel good. I feel stronger. I feel happy to be doing something to move forward. I may not feel like a smoldering love goddess, but I feel like I'm on my way. I'll feel even more so when I can finally take a shower again.
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