I Heard it Downtown

I’ve been in a bit of a creative rut these past few weeks, and I couldn’t seem to figure out why. Maybe I’m still suffering from some sort of post-Obama hangover. Maybe my reservoir of sarcasm, which I previously thought was bottomless, has unexpectedly gone temporarily dry. Maybe I’m reading the wrong books. All I know is that I hadn’t written any funny (or really…anything of consequence that wasn’t for school) in weeks, and I needed to do something to shake things up. When all other creative muses failed, I went back to the old standby, exercise.

This isn’t really new. About half of these little notes over the last several months were conceived when I was slapping pavement somewhere. Because of all that running, my shoes are now very much physically falling apart. My heels are starting to look like dog’s tongues in the summer, flapping off the rest of the shoe in the wind. They provide almost no support, so I feel like Zydrunas Ilgauskas after playing back to back games in the morning.

I typically run with an iPod, in an effort to forget how many laps I’ve done, or how tired I am. At first, this system worked out great, but I’ve logged so many miles with it that I’ve developed an unfortunate habit of mouthing the words to the music. Now, if I’m running by myself, or if I’m listening to some instrumental music, its no biggie. But every once in a while, I stop paying attention to the music, only to think crap…I hope I wasn’t mouthing the words to Sexual Healing to that old woman I passed two miles ago. (aaaaand that’s why I can’t run on Lane Ave. anymore).

That wouldn’t be my first awkward running moment. I was running just about every day when I was living in DC last spring. One day, when the temperature finally started to heat up, I decided to go for a jog along the Potomac River without a shirt. The Potomac isn’t the cleanest river in some parts, and I remember absentmindedly scratching my back whenever I ran around a bend that attracted a lot of bugs. About 3 miles in, as I was making my return to my apartment, a fellow jogger came up behind me, gave me a big high five, and yelled “YEEAAAH BOY!”

It took me a few seconds before I understood what the heck he was talking about. At first, I kind of wanted to run up and explain myself. “no no, see, I haven’t actually had a date in three months. I was just itchy. It’s not what you think. Honest”….but you know what? I didn’t. Let him think he wants. (I put a shirt on after that though).

I never really developed that kind of relationship with other forms of exercise though, like weight training. Not that I haven’t tried. This idea of actually, you know, getting in shape has kind of been that green light at the end of the bay for me. The ritual happens about every year. In the winter, I’ll look at myself in the mirror, become a little disgusted, and declare that this time, no, I’m being totally serious here, I will get in shape. I will grow a muscle or two. I won’t run for the sake of running, I will try and run fast. I will stick to a totally sweet routine for maybe a month and then I will pretty much go back to what I was already doing.

Last year, I even kicked it up a notch. I got suckered into buying one of those plastic tubs of protein powder (in my defense, it did come with a free T-shirt, which means one more day I don’t have to do laundry. It says MAX MUSCLE on it, and I wear it around the apartment when I feel like being ironic).

At any rate, now seemed like just as good a time as any to get up and fail at getting in shape, so I decided that instead of running along the Olentangy, I ought to go down to the RPAC, Ohio State’s gigantic gym, to try and get the ol’ endorphins flowin/sculpt my guns (were you able to read that sentence without laughing? Cause I sure wasn’t able to type it with a straight face).

The RPAC is not just any university gym…it is truly a modern marvel, a wonder to behold. To provide a sense of reference to my non-Ohio State friends, picture the size of American University. The RPAC is roughly that big. It is over 4 stories of basketball courts, treadmill after treadmill, and a dizzying array of weightlifting devices that extends as far as the eye can see. Like the Amazon is the only home of millions of unique specifies of plants and animals, I suspect the RPAC is the only place on earth where certain kinds of exercise equipment lives. If you told me there is a pool in the basement JUST for Underwater Hockey, I would believe you.

I only know how to safely operate a tiny fraction of the machines in the RPAC. I hoped to do a quick rotation of those machines, hit the rowing machine for a few min, and then run back to my apartment without breaking anything important.

I sit down at one of the chest-press machines, turn up the ol’ ipod, and get to work. Naturally, no sooner do I start, than what looks like two guys from the OSU Defensive Line sit down on the machines next to me, and proceed to set their weights so large they require scientific notation. We exchange glances. They smirk a little. I smile weakly, and proceeded to struggle lifting up my body weight. Whatever. I bet I have a higher SAT score.

This process continues, as I move about the floor. I sit down at a machine, and Atlas/Dallas Lauderdale/Chuck Norris slides in next to me and silently judges. I tried to play it cool, as I did maybe my 6^th bicep curl, I looked to the guy next to me and grunted 1001…1002..1003..ARGH and set the weight down. The guy looks over at me.

“Hey. I don’t know if you were listening, but I did over 1000. Its boring, but you know, its part of my life”.

Nothing. Nobody in the RPAC had seen Anchorman. Screw you guys, I’m running some laps and going home.

And so the cycle continues I guess….I’m sure I’ll stick with it for a few more weeks, and then break will come, and I’ll get distracted, go to Taco Bell, and all my work will be lost. Oh well. At least I think I snapped out of one funk.