The Gym Buff

“I am fruiting.”

“I am juicing.”

If I hear one more diet lingo from another girl I will go mad!

It just seems babes have a new weight-loss fad every season; few years ago it was the Ardyss Body Magic craze. Its success went viral; however it wasn’t long before a downside was discovered when guys found it to be a barrier during ‘playtime’.  Imagine all that hard work trying to get them off; energy spent that left you worn-out before you started.  Even the babes realised it was a mood killer, it just had to go.

Next came Spanx. It heralded a new wave of body ‘packaging’ and slimming wear. The girls welcomed it with euphoria, after all Kim Kardashian was wearing it too. But, (as there are always ‘buts’ with these kinds of things) the deception beneath it was too much. Boyfriends felt cheated and husbands duped that the women they were attracted to were far from the real deal under Spanx. The last straw was when it became available for men, now the women were subjected to a taste of their own medicine. It wasn’t long before that too diminished…

Today weight watchers have come up with different schemes to shed the odd fat and no, it isn’t something you wear this time, it is actually something you consume.

Fruiting and juicing.

Terms used to describe the practise of consistently starving yourself off regular foods and consuming only fruits the whole day or eating only a combination of liquid-based diets for long periods of time. Does this work? Maybe, personally many guys aren’t complaining much as it actually reduces date expenses. I have my reservations though; I have always said the best way to be fit is to exercise (in addition to fruiting and juicing). Unfortunately many babes couldn’t be bothered to gym and would only carry on their dietary regimen halfway.

All these thoughts went through my mind yesterday as I drove to The Edge, a gym not far from my house.  I got my bag out and entered the gym. It was a Friday so it was slightly packed. A capoeira class was in progress but I was booked for Wednesday evenings. I walked on towards the general workout area where I spotted a few fakes; guys who only came to the gym to ogle at women. They usually hung around the treadmills doing nothing but drinking copious amounts of water and taking pictures.

I did my leg squats for about twenty minutes before moving to the bench press. At the corner of the room was a heavily built dude with short braids, about six foot two with biceps resembling little hillocks of pounded yam that had several wiry veins running through them. His pecs were decent too, beefy and plumped up, evidence of time well spent doing cardios.

He lay down on one of the benches and began to press, starting with 185Ibs. Not one to back down from an opportunity, I subconsciously challenged myself to compete with him. I started with the next press nearby, ramping up 185Ibs too (normally I would start with 180Ibs). A few minutes later I looked at him, he had raised the bar to 190Ibs. No shaking, I increased mine too pushing up and pumping hard.

Several minutes later, the muscular guy had moved on to 195Ibs pushing fast and hard. I replicated same, only this time my hands were beginning to tremble a bit. I surged on, hoping he would give up soon.  A small gathering of people had stopped to watch (I cursed silently at the busybodies). The next time I turned my head to look at the dude, he was already on to 210Ibs, waxing stronger than ever. We had been going on for about 20 minutes non-stop now and that was when I realised that the annoying sound I had been hearing was my own breathing…like a dying steam engine chuffing on its last coal supplies.

When I tried to lift 210Ibs, my arms gave up and that was when I gave in. No I won’t have a heart attack today… I asked someone to hand me my towel. For the first time I gulped down all the Lucozade in my bottle in one go. My rival went on another 5 minutes before hanging up (show off). After I had caught my breath, as a good sport I walked over to commend his gym prowess.

"Bro! That was something back there. You got decent pecs too…how do you do it, steroids? Whey protein?”

He looked at me with a blank expression before replying:

“First of all, I am not a bro. And these- he pushed up his chest - are breasts not pecs.”

Then he walked out of the gym towards the ladies shower room.

I was dumbfounded, shocked beyond words! The truth is I wouldn’t have believed her, but the high pitched voice confirmed it all. I had been owned by a girl.

That was the end of gyming for me- for that evening.

As I drove back home that night, my arms feeling like dead weights, I had to rethink my previous assertions about girls and their unwillingness to exercise.