With the exception of cleaning up after myself, I don’t do anything half-assed. I take normal shit – shit most people would consider to be blah and mundane – and go way over the top.
My zeal is evidenced by my rippled level 49 Raichu in Pokémon Soul Silver, my intensely hipster fixie, my godly ice-climber backpack (which is totally useless for Davis) and my disarming overclock on my powerhouse of a computer. Worthwhile investments of my time? Debatable. But this is Amurika, where trivialities reign supreme – and as such, I do my shit properly.
My latest crusade is slightly more sensible, but my enthusiasm is equally as extreme. I have been to the ARC at least five days a week for the past seven weeks (excluding spring break, of course, when I decided that cubes of meat from McClintock’s BBQ and Saloon were a good choice).
That’s fucking insane. I NEVER thought I would be that guy who thrives on getting all sweaty and swolled up. Well, there was that stint sophomore year where I lifted weights for hours on end. I had to stop because the flood of testosterone I got was dangerous. Case in point: I visited my parents and anytime my Momma would ask me to do some household banality, I would just pick her up, tell her “I’m jacked” and relocate her somewhere else in the house. So for now, I’m sticking with cardio and just trying to assault my heart and not my mom.
A guy as beastly and as in need of exercise as me should have a little support from the general public. For a host of reasons, however, that support isn’t there. So any and all ARC frequenters/employees: Heads up, because here are Big Dave’s Three Rules of Fitness Etiquette:
1. Hot, fit sorority girls on the CoreX – kindly step the fuck off. Who needs cardio more: The super, sexy dime piece trying to tone that last little line around her abs or the fat Persian guy with lines and curves that would give most people nightmares? That’s what I thought.
Not to compare myself to fictional idols, but the fucking crowd should part like the Red Sea when I walk into the gym. There should be no shortage of machines for me to use. So if you use an elliptical for some warm up, warm down or tummy tuck bullshit, make way for the guy who really needs it. His heart thanks you.
2. If you’re not committed, GTFO. At the beginning of the New Year, the beginning of the quarter and in the weeks preceding Houseboats and the opening of the Rec Pool, the ARC is packed to the fucking brim. Can I get a little commitment up in this motherfucking bitch?! Holy shit.
If you’re going to take up space, at least do it continually so I can fucking predict when the gym is about to be packed so I can cool my Muscle Melk accordingly. And for all of you who think that one or two weeks of intense exercise before strutting around in next to nothing at the Meat Market (aka Rec Pool) or on some rowdy boat at Shasta is going to make you hotter, you’re wrong. You’ll just look puffy. You should have been there in September, Mr. McGillicutty.
3. Don’t check yourself out in the mirror. You know when you subtly glance at yourself in the mirror as you walk by to see how bomb your calf looks or you slightly lift your shirt to check out the Spillagio Hotel at your waistline? Yeah, we all see that shit. I mean, you’re in a room full of other people trying to work on their fitness and I’m their fucking witness.
If you’re going to be vain, do it right. Lift up your shirt, flex your shit – both frontal and side views of course – and enjoy. I’ve seen people do it and, you know, I can have at least a scrap of respect because they embrace their narcissism. Just own up to your vanity or check it at the door with all your other defense mechanisms.
On a side note about ARC employees in the weight room: What the hell do they do in that little floaty island in the center? They used to give out towels, but now they don’t. Can someone please tell me their purpose, because they are clearly not changing the channels properly. They just sit there and space the fuck out (while getting their night degree from Space Cadet flight school), then 30 minutes later another khaki-clad blue shirt comes in to assume the role of fitness room vegetable.
Must be nice to get paid to float around in oblivion on a little island while hundreds of people around you drown in body-image sorrow and workout pain. Fuck. Can we trade spots? I wouldn’t mind wandering aimlessly between exercise machines.
DAVE KARIMI is about to do his BIS 2B pre-lab which – for all intents and purposes – is a massive insult to his intelligence. Oh well. Here’s to another quarter at UC Davis! Shoot him a knee-mail at dkarimi@ucdavis.edu.
