From time to time, I’ve been getting my blog on about my efforts to lose some weight. One of the most important things that I have learned along the way is that most of weight loss comes down to diet, not exercise. That’s not to say that exercise isn’t necessary or useful, but the lion’s share of my weight loss has come down to paying a bit more attention to what goes in my mouth. (Feel free to make your own jokes here. Go ahead, I’ll wait.)
In the past, I’ve approached weight loss with a very heavy emphasis on exercise. At one point in our past, Angie and I joined a gym in a failed attempt to battle the bulge. For me, it was mostly an endless nightmare of sweat, elliptical machines, and near limb-loss at the hands of various pieces of overly complicated exercise equipment. But I did learn one very important lesson:
If I never see another old, naked, fat man blow drying his crotch, I’ll be OK.
I don’t know what possesses a man to blow dry his nether region. I’ve toyed with theories as varied as sacred grooming rituals, childhood trauma related to severe jock itch, or a colossal misinterpretation of the written directions that come with hair dryers. Whatever the cause, I have to wonder why they all kept doing it in front of me. And without wanting to sound overly judgemental, why on God’s green Earth were they all so… portly?
At any given, time there were between 5 and 35 people working out at the same time I was. Of those, the great majority looked so fit that I would have not have been at all surprised to find out they worked out at a second gym just to look that good at our gym. Statistically speaking, sooner or later I should have walked into the locker room to find a Hercules wafting heated air at his secondary beard. But it never happened. They were always chubby, old, and disturbingly naked.
For awhile I thought it might have something to do with balding. Most offenders were chrome-dome types, and I thought that maybe they just missed the thrill-filled exhilaration that comes with blow drying. I was even concerned that my hair loss might one day lead me down the same path. But then I saw what can only be described as an aging, overweight Sasquatch performing his own rendition of “no wet ball left behind”. Theory, and retinas, blown.
But as odd as the blow drying down under is, I’m willing to overlook it. What I can’t overlook is the plethora of old, fat, naked guys strutting about. Being a man of girth myself, I’ve always tried to do my part to screen the world from my “vast expanses”. It seems only polite. But these fellows never seemed to be aware of the spectacle they were creating.
And believe me, it was a spectacle. Because they weren’t just strutting about, sans clothes or towel. No, that would have been bad enough. Just to up the ante a bit, they often found reasons to bend over. It’s as if once they were naked, they became extremely obsessed with getting a good, close-up look at their toes. Or perhaps they were all tile floor and grout enthusiasts. Regardless, at least once a week, I’d find myself in a locker room full of old, fat, naked men alternatively blow drying their waistlines and bending over to do various questionable tasks.
I can’t be certain, but I imagine that is what a ballet in hell looks like.