The Last Drop

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“You’re likely going to hate me.”

I could feel my left eye involuntarily twitch at the simple statement. A low throb had settled in at my temples from the idea I had just now contemplated and had confirmed. I sat dumbfounded looking over the crisp white sheets of paper in front on me. The instructions on them were as simple as I imagined they would be but the concepts were as foreign as North Korean stand up comedy.

“I know its going to rough for the first few weeks but if you are serious about the goals you have told me then I think this is the best course of action”

My head was swimming now in a haze of brown liquid. It jolted itself through the steps it had taken me to get to this moment as I tried to focus on the last few words written on the bottom of the first page.

From the race last year and my feelings of failure despite finishing quite respectably.

My fear over a diagnosis of being prediabetic.

A family history of massive heart issues.

An extended family full of men whose waist lines grew in almost exponential equations to the receding of their hair lines.

The numbers I saw every day when I looked at the scale that seemed to always hover around the same few digits no matter what I did or didn’t eat.

I knew I needed help but had no idea where to start.

I think in the last ten years I had tried every single workout program from P90X, a program I fully believe would keep anyone from being accosted in the showers in prison to wrapping my body in plastic wrap and running up and down the stairs at the boat launch. Every food craze from kale smoothies to raspberries ketones to squirrel intestines. Every health drink from protein shakes to frozen green tea, which has led to a jug in my fridge being constantly referred to as “Dad’s New Weirdo Health Thing”.

It shouldn’t be that hard. It shouldn’t require that sort of effort. It all seems so simple.

Eat sensibly, drink lots of water, train hard. Funny how easy that sounds.

After meeting a personal trainer, who despite being an amazing specimen had only yet another book to offer me as far as nutrition went, I decided to take a different approach. I had seen the sign for the office on my way to a meeting and a quick phone call led me to the moment of unreality I was now facing. Michelle, the nutritionist, sat across the table from me with a smile that never wavered. After taking my height and inspecting me like a 4H girl inspects a blue ribbon calf she motioned for me to step on the scale.

I unloaded even the lint from my pockets on to the table holding my keys, wallet and phone before with that levitating step on to the biometric scale. My weight was three pounds heavier at 220 pounds and a body fat percentage of 16 percent. I sighed and looked over at the nodding smile.

“You are actually in great shape for a guy with your muscle mass.” Michelle said as she made a few notes.

“Not where I plan on ending up.” I answered her unspoken question.

After a few more questions about my long-term goals, the printer beside her desk spit out the plan I now held away from my body like a distant aunt holdings a puking baby.

“Seriously?” I balked “No coffee at all?”

“Not for the time being, no.” Michelle answered as she settled her long frame back in her chair waiting for I am sure was the explosion she had likely seen more times than I have seen that video of the three puppies yawning in unison. My mind couldn’t comprehend the idea.

The other diet ideas were as basic as I imagined they would be. No breads, no grains and no sugars. It was the no coffee that struck me like a back-handed pimp hand. I love coffee with a devotion bordering on the obsessive. To the point where my eyes can’t even open in the morning until after my second cup. This was one of those choices that you never want to have to make. Like which one of your kids you love more or if you were getting bacon or sausage with your mountain of pancakes at Denny’s.

“Okay.” I sighed with a hitch in my voice not unlike saying goodbye to an old friend ” I will do it.”

“Fantastic. We will see you back in three weeks.” Michelle said as she stood and guided me out the door.

My resolve was firm though as are all peoples with a new set of instructions. That first initial step on the path to good health taken. What no one tells you is that while the first step is simple the actual journey is like walking the Boston Marathon with the road covered with oddly angled LEGO pieces.

The first sip of green tea, the only caffeine I was now allowed, the first morning nearly broke my resolve. There were so many great coffee shops along the way to the job site. Each of them promising to wash away the medicinal tea taste and the film my sludgy breakfast smoothie left on my tongue. But I held my resolve. At least until the headache started. The first signs of caffeine withdrawal setting in and the beginning of a six day headache that made even the smallest of things seem like Titanic scale disasters. All the while, coffee shops on every street corner with overflowing urns like Mrs. Potts in “Beauty and the Beast” singing their aromatic song that promised to take away all the worries I had in the world. A magic potion that would fix all my ailments.

But as I stood in my kitchen on the morning of the sixth day watching the kettle boil, I felt my pants slip off my hips and down over my butt. Not really an uncommon thing but never really happening while I wore a belt. I snickered as I pulled my belt into a spot it hadn’t been in a very long time. I had been skipping the heavy weights I always had used in favour of long runs and outdoor hikes in an effort to lean down. Clearly something it was working. It just wasn’t easy. It would have simply been easier to roll up to a drive through get an extra large Double Double to go with the dozen honey dipped donuts that had been haunting my palate for weeks. I just couldn’t shake the image of being one of those guys that sweats walking from my car to the front door of a fast food chain.

I had heard a quote that had really struck me and it was never more true than every time I watched one of the guys that work for me slurping down a giant chocolate milk while I sipped a retched vegetable based cleansing drink that tasted like a combination of rancid asparagus tips and Old MacDonald’s sweaty socks.

“Live one year of your life like no one should so you can spend the rest of your life like no one could.”

This thought was firmly in my mind as I walked through the doors of Michelle’s office a few days later to check in. Her knowing smile was confirmation enough that I had likely been through the worst of it. We chatted briefly about the mood swings that had my family wanting me dead and the restrictive plant-based diet.

“Let’s see how you did.” Michelle said as she motioned to the scales. That momentary lightning bolt of panic ripped through my brain with the same doubts I always faced when approaching the scales. Had I done enough? How bad had I done? What would happen if I had actually gained weight?

I stripped off as much of my clothing as the nutritionist allowed after trying valiantly to “drop some pounds” in her office bathroom before stepping on to the judgemental machine. I closed my eyes and waiting for the sigh that told me I had yet again failed.

“Holy shit.” Michelle blurted with a small laugh.

“How bad?” I asked with a tremulous voice.

“Bad?” Michelle snickered ” You’ve lost almost 13 pounds and 1 and a half percent body fat.”

“Is that good?’ I questioned in my incomprehension.

“It’s better than good. It’s great.” She replied as she jotted down the notes. I stepped down and pulled my shirt back on. I was dumbfounded. It had actually worked. I sat in almost silence as she went over the next phase and how I should expect my progress to slow down a bit. We talked about the pace I needed to set in order to get to my now much lower goal weight and how with proper diligence I could get there in the six month time frame I hoped for.

“You seem to be right on track,” Michelle said as we stood by the door to a completely new world ” What are you going to do next?”

“Well right now I am going to celebrate and cheat on my diet with a donut the size of a soccer ball and a gallon of coffee.” I said as I pushed the door open.

“I hate you.” Michelle laughed as she shoved the door shut behind me.

 

 

 

Finish Lines and Prison Showers

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“You have got to be kidding me.” I heard someone ahead of me groan.

My lungs were burning as I rounded a slight uphill grade out of a dense growth of pines and laid my eyes on what had elicited the shuddering sound. The trail stretched upward at such a steep incline that my heart sank to my sweaty crotchal zone. I slowed to what felt like a crawl and when the traffic in front of me bulged up like an unexpected erection when you are wearing track pants I did the only thing I could.

I grabbed the twenty something year old Asian girl who had come to a dead stop and tossed her over the fallen tree in the path and jumped over it myself. My calves screamed as I pushed as hard as I could down on my feet and tried to push my duck foot walk into a stumbling jog up the ski hill.

From the time I crossed the hay-field that had been converted into a parking lot until stepping up to the starting line at the base of the ski hill hosting the event, I was astounded by the rock concert atmosphere of the Spartan Sprint. Athletic bodies as far as the eye could see mingled with children running as wild as mongrel dogs. I had been training for this moment for months. Along with my own personal Yoda, my best friend Rob, we had set our sights on the finish line and resounding glory of finishing a Spartan race. Months of training and planning and running had led to the moment where we would bolt through the starting gate and hammer our way through the course. We would cross the finish line hand in hand like a non homosexual but still surprisingly fashionable couple.

We wandered around with the rest of our teams and families in awe of the spectacle. Thousands of people all clamouring for the chance to hurl themselves at the mountainous course. I was ready and pacing like a donkey trying not to step on his elongated scrotum. We had watched the previous heat leave the starting gate and of the hundreds that left not one had managed to maintain even a jogging pace at the top of the first treacherously long hill. I was determined to make it out to the front of the pack and maintain my pace. I had been killing my times running miles and had been jogging up the ski hill not four minutes from my house over the past few weeks. My training regimen alone should have given me an advantage.

“You ready?” Rob asked as we approached the massing bodies at the starting gate.

“Fuck yeah.” I answered boldly as I pulled my headband up from around my neck and put my number in place.

“Shirts off?” Rob further questioned as I was already yanking my compression shirt over my sweat damp head.

“Only way to do it,brother.” I answered as he pulled his Batman shirt off. We stood like gladiators waiting to be fed to the lions or at least the raging herd of cats I was sure the super fit Amazon near the front of the pack had in her apartment but had been neglecting to feed for the past month. The event announcer dressed in full Spartan regalia counted down the time as we tensed at the gate. His Andy Frost radio voice was infinitely distracting but as he reached zero, we took off like a used condom.

The angle of the first incline rose quickly and it was nearly impossible to maintain a running pace. We slowed to a jog which rapidly devolved into a wide legged rapid walk. The same one most people get when they fart and aren’t really sure if anything came out so you hobble to the bathroom. My calves were sore by the time we reached the top which I thought was odd but made my way to the first obstacle. The wall traverse was one on the more difficult things to get over and I was glad it was out-of-the-way early in the race.

Side by side, my sun browned skin and his musician’s pasty white, Rob and I descended the first hill and I knew I wasn’t feeling right. I crushed my way through the next obstacle, climbing a spider web style rope triangle before pulling a hundred pound propane tank on a rope twenty-five feet into the air and turned to see yet another steeply rising hill. The sun was beating down on us and we shouted encouraging grunts at each other before heading back up.

Around the top of the hill and through more fiendishly designed objectives we raced before chasing each other down a steeply banked hill. At the bottom rested a set of gymnastics style rings that had to be crossed before advancing. The penalty for not making it through was the same as every other failure. A series of thirty burpees which for the uninformed are a combination of push ups and trying not to vomit.

Rob traversed quickly with his monkey like strength and much slighter build. I saw him standing at the end waiting for me when my hand slipped off and it dropped to the sodden ground below. I saw his chin dip a bit. I wanted him to run the best race he could not hindered by waiting for me.

“Go.” I yelled out to him.

“You sure?” Rob asked back as he turned his body towards the next set of hellish events.

“I will catch up.” I said determinedly as I dropped to the ground and forced my self through the penalty. I saw him scamper through the set of adult monkey bars and start the long trek up as I made my way towards the childs play structure. My hands carried my stiffening legs across the span only to have my hands slip just as I reached the bell that needed to be run in order to advance. My fingers grazed it just enough to make as much sound as an orgasm in church.

I bolted out of the area as more runners filled in behind me. I saw Rob as short way up the incline and jogged to catch up. I was less than a few hundred yards behind him when a feeling came over me I hadn’t expected.

I was just over half way through the race and I was completely out of gas. I had committed the cardinal sin of racing. If there is no fuel in the tank, the engine shuts off. I had listened to a few people who had run the Sprint before and said to eat a huge meal the night before but had paid very little attention to my own body. Caught up in the hype and fever of it all, I hadn’t eaten a thing that day.

I slowly forced myself to keep moving. The climb seemed to take an eternity. All around me, people from all different heats and levels of fitness were sitting off to the sides of the track in the cooling shade. I paused long enough to dunk my head under a cooling jet of water normally reserved for snow making before grinding out another long section of the course. I knew that no matter how long it took me I was going to finish the course.

Uphill and down. Over and under wooden walls. I ground out each section of the course with the grim determination of not finishing as fast as I had planned but finishing none the less. My dehydrated brain carried my body past the point I wanted to just sit down. I forced myself to crawl through dark,sticky mud covered by barbed wire until the crowds began to gather. I knew I had to be close. I saw dozens of people waiting at the last obstacle, an uphill rope climb slick from the muddy boots of hundreds of feet. I saw Rob with his medal for finishing already around his neck yelling encouraging things that to my fried egg brain sounded like someone farting into a pillow and blaming their dog. It spurred me on to claw my way up then slide down a rope before making the final dash over a roaring fire that traditionally you would make some grand leaping mid-air pose for the cameras. I leapt over it on numb calves and barely avoided burning the hair off my bikini line.

A medal was placed around my neck by a smiling blond in Spartan wear. She congratulated me and my rational mind came up with a line about mixing my chocolate with her peanut butter but what came out was a half-hearted joke about rubbing a Reese’s on my junk. I wandered away looking for some water before she could respond.

“We did it.” Rob yelled as I made my way out of the finish area “I was only a little bit ahead of you at the end.”

“That last hill took forever to get up.” I groaned and tried wiping some of the accumulated mud from my bald head.

“But you made it,” Rob laughed “Let’s hit the showers.”

The showers if they were to be called that was a crude system of hoses shooting water colder than a mother-in-laws kiss over the grime crusted masses. We made our way over to the line and were trying to sneak in before we saw that more than a few people had mud in orifices not normally designed to hold it. One young woman was hosing out her shorts and giving herself what must have been an arctic enema based on the flow of water gushing out the ass cheek holders on her yoga shorts. Another late fifties male runner with a chest of hair thicker than the sweater my aunt knit me for one Christmas that some how ended up as the bedding for a litter of piglets at a petting zoo had his shorts pulled out with one hand and the hose in the other was washing the underside of his dangling testicles with the care normally reserved for washing a newborns hair.

Enema Girl handed the hose off to Rob and he quickly washed down his arms before trying to rinse out his hair. I took the hose from him and tried to generate enough water pressure to get the thick coating off to no avail.

“Turn around.” I said to Rob. I started rinsing his back off and laughed when I looked around and saw at least three more couples of men doing the same. I had figured he and I would cross the finish line together hand in hand and yet at the end of the day we simply ended up in the shower together.

Race Day

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After what has felt like months of training and suffering and more than one episode of soul searching, its race day.

On June 7th, I will finally be taking part in my first Spartan Sprint.

It has caused me to neglect a lot of things including telling my stories to all of you but in the end it has left me with a level of fitness I have never had before and the body to match it.

So, while I apologize for neglecting all of you, I will be back and hopefully in one piece sooner than later.

Thank you for not abandoning this blog as in the near future I have some super stupid great news to share with every one of you.

Sounds From the Baseball Field – Volume 2

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One of the true benefits of coaching sports, especially with the same group of young men and women over a nine-year span is you get to know them as both a teacher and a friend.

You learn their likes and dislikes. How they interact with others. Their hobbies. Their interests. Their dreams. Their goals.

You watch them grow.

You see them through birthdays and graduations. Through bad days and funerals.

You hear them sings songs of victory. You lift their chins in defeat.

What you don’t really expect to hear is –

“Dude, I know she’s your girlfriend but if she really loved you, she wouldn’t have given you chlamydia.”

The Power of Sports

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I have coached baseball for a lot of years at this point and yet it still never fails to amaze me at what can happen.

I have seen countless foul balls hit parked cars and seated testicles.

I have seen face plants and ass cheeks studded with gravel from a poorly executed slide into third base.

I have seen an entire team giving each other a Gatorade shower during the second to last inning of a game and then rolling in the red clay sand creating the world’s biggest “sugar cookies”.

I have seen parents losing their minds over a single dropped ball and rejoicing when a child gets hit by a pitch to load the bases.

I didn’t think much could surprise me.

Yet, I was completely unprepared to have a six-year-old girl who wore a skirt instead of her uniform stepping up to the plate, taking a practice swing then promptly dropping the bat and bolting as fast as she could across the field towards the Portapotty yelling –

“Play without me, I gotta poop!!!”

Proving yet again, that when you think you have seen it all, a kid shits their pants.

 

The Eyes Don’t Lie

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There are few thing sin your life that you simply can’t shake once you have seen them.

Like the first time you see your Mom naked. Or your Dad. Or the first time you see them naked together.

For the elderly lady that lives across the street from me and rides her Wicked Witch of the West bicycle at all hours of the day giving me nightmares, I assume she is never going to be able to shake the image of my fridge light revealed naked form double fist dunking strawberry frosted Pop Tarts in a giant glass of chocolate milk because this diet I am on has my body sleep eating at three in the morning damn near anything that I can mash up into a baseball sized mound and shove into my face like something out of the Walking Dead complete with the awkward shuffling and groaning.

Be disturbed by that image all you like. I will not be able to shake the image of her peeking in my windows.

“I’ll get you, my Pretty” indeed.

Treading Water

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With my new-found commitment to exercising pretty much daily, I spend a lot of time running outside.

It really is a thousand times better than the severe boredom of running on the treadmill even if the new fashion trend at the gym is yoga pants so tight that a vagina looks like a McDonald’s cheeseburger on its side.

So when the weather is bad and the monotony of the cheeseburger watching starts to get to me, I take up the old past time. Swimming.

Remember as a kid how you could swim for what felt like hours, get out, suck down a sand coated piece of watermelon and keep going? Turns out that sort of energy fades as an adult.

So the answer to that is organized swimming lanes clearly marked like traffic lanes on the highway and God forbid you are swimming in the wrong lane.

There’s the Fast Lane.  This is for your serious swimmers. Competitive. Ruthless. They know how to do those somersault flip turns and wear Speedos that highlight how hairy their inner thighs are.

The ‘Medium speed swimming’ Lane. This lane is mostly full of ‘Fast lane’ rejects because everyone thinks they’re fast. They usually are for about the first lap and a half then tire out.

But these disqualified fakers got embarrassed out of the Fast lane by the really fast swimmers continually passing them.

The fast swimmers love this. They don’t actually say it but you know their thinking it…

“Lapped you again, fatty”

Now if a Medium swimmer doesn’t get the message and change lanes , they’re in for that special visit from the Lifeguard – the ultimate pool embarrassment.

Having been identified as too slow for the lane the authorities have now arrived because of the noisy environment the Lifeguard has to shout and everyone can hear….

“Sir, this is for advanced swimmers only! Please join the other Orcas in the Slow Lane”

“What?” they say, pretending not to hear.

“The Fast lane! You need to move over with these swimmers!”, the Lifeguard bellows, pointing at the slower swimmers of the Medium speed lane. Michael Phelps’ clones continue to rush by, doing those flip turns.

Humiliated the demoted swimmer slips under the lane rope, back to their own people,…..the medium… the mediocre…..the un-Speedoed.

Finally, there is the slow lane.

Usually renamed with something like “Leisure Lane” because it wouldn’t be nice to call someone slow.

These swimmers don’t put their heads in the water. They paddle their merry way along, usually in the standing position, some have that neon pool noodle wrapped around them or a floatation belt that lets them appear to be doing it on their own but much like a push up bra you know those things aren’t floating up that high on their own.

Every ounce of energy used to keep that head above water and after 5 minutes and no forward movement, they’ll reach over and start pulling themselves along with that lane rope. Back on sturdy ground, they go back to what they know….the Therapy pool.

Easily the most popular destination in any gym, it’s a haven of warmer than normal water designed to ease strained muscles and relax the mind and yet it constantly is full of elderly women with their asses pressed directly over the jets of the heated water pretending we have no idea they are doing it and diapered children trying valiantly to hold in the poop they told their parents they had to take a half an hour ago before their Soccer Mom parked her ass down beside the other iphone wielding debutants all looking to “Lol” at the text they just got from the boyfriend their husbands don’t know about.

Peeing in the Therapy pool is popular as well. Statistics say 70% of swimmers admit to peeing in the pool.

With these kinds of numbers supporting peeing in the pool, why continue ignoring the issue, instead we should embrace it.

Now a days, with all these water park features… Surf riders, slides, lazy rivers and wave pools, maybe we could invent toilet pools.

Toilet Pools, a new exciting experience for swimmers, while they relieve themselves. With that new pee sensing agent changing the color of the pool, It would have a realistic ‘Toilet Blue’ color.

Every few minutes the Lifeguard could reach up and pull this giant chain, starting the whole pool swirling round like a whirlpool to simulate the adventure of being flushed down a toilet. Forcing the young and old a like to swim as fast as they can against the on rushing swirls and suction out a tube in the bottom of the pool, through a drying tunnel and depositing them into the gym.

Directly onto a treadmill.

 

The Five Easy Payments of $29.99 Story

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I will be completely up front. I love infomercials.

There is just something completely magical about a blender that juices fruit, makes my teeth whiter, promises to grow my hair back, connect my iphone to other blenders around the world and trims my nostril hair. The fact Mr. T is endorsing it and sending it to my door for the low price of six easy payments of $29.99 unless I act now because they will reduce it to just FIVE payments is a no brainer for me.

At three in the morning and credit card in hand, I can get truly frightening.

After I broke my leg I watched my weight balloon to a point it had never reached. I rationalized it as best I could. That they multiple surgeries and doctors advice about my mobility were enough reason to scarf down whatever I wanted. So I did.

I didn’t realize how huge I had gotten until I saw a picture of myself and was shocked. The camera doesn’t add ten pounds, it adds a whole other person. I was heavier than I had ever been. With a family history of diabetes and heart disease I was quickly on the road to one or both of those.

I was standing in my living room when an infomercial came on that immediately caught my attention. It was for a brand new program called P90X. I saw the dramatic results these people achieved and was intensely jealous. Jealous enough that I knew I had to do whatever I could to get the body they had and I wanted. So out came the credit card.

The program was brutally intense and I think I shed as many tears as I did drops of sweat those first few weeks. I spent more time soaking sore muscles in the bath tub than I did even being awake until the first day it stopped hurting a little. Little by little, the weight came off.

Like any exercise program you do for a few months, things get stagnant. I was constantly looking for something new. Something different. Something to take the weight off faster and easier. Infomercial after infomercial. Program after program. Credit card bill after credit card bill.

It all worked to a point but it stopped being even remotely fun. There was no real goal other than to complete the next step with no finish line in sight. So when the chance came to run a five kilometer race at a ski hill came along, I jumped at it. I started running on a small island near my house and for the first time in a long time it stopped feeling like exercise. It was just running outside. As a kid I can remember running for hours and not even considering the fact I was getting tired. I was just having fun.

My mental informercial mindset has always led me to want to try new and trendy things. The newest trend is obstacle racing with the most revered of those being the Spartan Race. A three, eight or twelve mile obstacle filled battlefield. Mud pits. Rope climbs. Hill runs with sandbags attached to you. Sounds like fun doesn’t it?

I decided the best way to train for it was to split my time between the gym and running outside. The snow had finally started to melt and despite the chilly wind, I ventured out. I needed to somehow simulate the obstacles in a race so I planned a route that would take me through the tourist park and past the water treatment plant. The air was cold in my lungs with every breath but its cold fire burned along side my competitive nature.

The ran the length of the snow filled beach past the pavilion filled with picnic tables and chairs. I smirked at myself thinking it looked exactly like an obstacle I had seen in most race plans. I turned myself towards it and dove under the first table. The idea was to crawl under the tables in a manner simulating the crawl under barbed wire through a mud pit. The instant I knelt down I heard a tremendous rip as well as the icy fingers of wind on my butt cheeks. I froze face down under the table and reached back. I felt a small tear along the seam of my pants before touching chilled flesh.

The fact I never wear underwear now seemed like a poor lifestyle choice.

I made my way under the tables and ran towards the water treatment plant. I could feel the seam of my pants spreading wider but at that point was too far from home to turn back. It was actually a quicker and less populated way home if I continued on. The frozen wind lashed across my exposed ass like a whip.

I took the most direct way across the dam that lead to the treatment plant only to see a ten foot tall chain link gate in my path. I truly had no idea when they had put that up. The “No Trespassing” sign was also new but I really just take those as a suggestion. Besides, I had to get home with as few people seeing my goose pimpled ass as possible.

The gate flared out around the concrete sides of the dam like wide-spread arms. The barbed wire across the top seemed like a poor choice to try to scale so I made the decision to wrap myself around the sides of the fence and reach for the other side. Entwining my fingers around the links in the fence I shoved my foot around the other side. The instant I pushed off to reach around to the other side two very ill-timed things occurred.

First, the rip in my pants stopped from running down my leg and headed for my groin.

Second, my junk fell out the now gaping hole.

With no one else around it may have not been a big deal. I certainly have never shied away from public indecency. I have likely put the chemicals in my pool more times naked than I have clothed. The issue here was a basic scientific principle.

Wet exposed skin plus frozen metal equals adhesion.

To put it much more plainly, my sweaty balls were now frozen the a fence post.

I hung in mid-air above a raging waterfall hoping that a bolt of lightning would strike the fence and kill me. I closed my eyes and prayed to every God that ever existed that the sun would come out and melt my testicles off the chilly steel. Those few seconds felt like an eternity. I had a choice to make. Hope for a miracle or do the unthinkable.

I pulled as quickly as I could away from the fence and felt the elastic snap of my testicles slapping against me as I jumped to the dam again. Searing pain racked my system and my body temperature shot up. Sweat poured down my body and stung the now raw flesh bouncing out the bottom of my destroyed pants.

I jogged as tenderly as I could home. Fearful the whole way a bus load of nuns would drive by and see my junk flopping around like a child on a coin operated horse outside a grocery store.

I stripped down as soon as I entered the door. I flung my pants towards the trash and looked over at the television I had left on. An infomercial was showing the latest trend in hair removal and I busted out laughing.

Forget hot wax. If you want to take the hair off your groin just stick them on a frozen fence.

 

 

Behind The Scenes

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It would likely amaze you how many things go on behind the scenes here at The Things I See Up Here.

More often than not it directly and negatively affects the volume of time I can actually spend writing.

So let’s take a peek behind the curtain.

Based on my writing you may have figured out that I own and operate my own business but that’s really just the beginning.

Having two kids that play three different sports each, my intense desire to get to the gym enough to hit my own weight goals, training for an upcoming Spartan run in Toronto (trust me you’re gonna want to hear this story), organizing the local youth softball league (I truly believe far too few people give back to their communities), pounding on my fiction work in my ultimate pursuit of getting published (the results of which can be found at 69 Flavors of Paranoia) truly devour what little passes for my spare time.

However, this week has been consumed by hospital visits.

Pull back the gasps. There is nothing wrong with me.

This week has been devoted to my brother Dart who has welcomed his first child. Three days of waiting and texting and calling and running have led to the birth of another Prince into my kingdom.

Yes, you can “awwwwww” all you want.

Me?

I am just going to stand silently off to the side shaking my head.

Why? Why oh why would he have to be born a Ginger……….

The Out of Synch Story

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The acrid tang of chlorine touched the back of my throat as I walked the humid hallway between the change room and the pool doors. As part of the Cross Fit program, we had to take part in a deep water fitness class. My fear of dancing was lifting with every step I took as I exited the change room in a whoosh of stagnant chemicals. I breathed deeply before rubbing my hands together at the thought of normally yoga clad bottoms floating around in bathing suit bottoms not big enough to keep bikini stubble dry. At least for one class I would be able to keep up with the movements and when I couldn’t I would just hide under the water and pretend I was doing something other than making the air fart out of my inflated pockets.

I saw only one person from class standing beside the pool as I made my way toward the deeper water. She was clad in a swimmers suit which while clingy was far too covering for what my brain had imagined would be a ring of synchronized camel toes rising out of the water to Madonna’s “Celebrate” with me in the middle spinning lazy circles. She had a bemused look on her face as she looked at the group already paddling around. She turned and arched an eyebrow at me and I gave her a half-smile before I turned my gaze to see where she had been looking.

There were at least a dozen women already in the pool. I think the youngest of them was in the neighborhood of sixty. There was more wrinkled white skin than the giant vat of Wonton soup at a Chinese buffet. My brain immediately went to the assumption that their class was finishing up and they would be getting out of the water. They were laughing and joking in that way women do when they have seen each other naked one too many times.

I saw the young aquatics instructor wheeling a speaker towards the pool and for one gleeful second I thought she planned on dumping the electric monstrosity into the pool to cook the entire floating mass like some geriatric bouillabaisse.

” Okay, who do I have from Cross Fit?,” she asked and the few of us brave enough to actually show up raised our hands.

“Well don’t be shy,” she laughed ” Join the class.”

I felt a nameless dread. Well, there probably is a long German name for it, like Geschpooklichkeit or something, but I don’t speak German. Anyway, it’s a dread that nobody knows the name for, like those little square plastic gizmos that close your bread bags. I don’t know the name for those either. I heard a splash and saw Dave the Ginger bobbing along beside the Menopause Mafia. There was no way I was going to be upstaged at this point so I cringingly slipped into the water. I swam out to the deepest point and stayed afloat as the music from “Sweatin to the Oldies” started.

I could feel the eyes of the women flicking over to me as I tried to keep pace. Treading water while doing spirit fingers above your head might seem easy but I assure you it isn’t. I began to tire fairly quickly and looked at the clock. Twenty minutes of an hour class had passed. I knew at that exact moment I was going to likely drown and be resuscitated by the Little Mermaid’s grandmother. I began to cheat my way over to the shallower water and sighed a little as I felt my toes touch the bottom of the slope.

” Okay, lets lay on our backs,” I heard the instructor call out and I flipped belly up. I was grateful for the rest as the last series of exercises had been rough. I stared at the ceiling as the next set of instructions were called out. I wasn’t completely sure what I was doing so I lifted my head out of the water to see pasty white flesh rising in unison. I came to a couple of shocking revelations at that moment.

First, I saw the reason why I was nearly drowning and no one else was even losing their breath was the simple fact they were all wearing flotation belts so they didn’t sink to the bottom.

Second, when women raise their legs out of the water when they are laying on their backs a bathing suit bottom doesn’t necessarily cover all of their bottoms. Or their fronts. Or anything in between.

I inhaled sharply and sucked in a huge lungful of water. I coughed harder than a sleeping dog farts trying to expel the liquid and nearly choked myself faint in the process. The instructor blew her whistle once and I saw life guards that I have underwear older than walking towards me. I waved them off and swam slowly over to the edge of the pool. I pulled myself up on the ledge and took a couple ragged breaths.

“You okay,” the instructor asked as she knelt down beside me. Every eye in the entire pool area seemed to be trained on me and every ear listening to my wet coughs.

“I think so,” I answered as I felt tears roll down my cheek ” It’s just the chlorine in the pool.”

I kept repeating “It was just the chlorine, It was just the chlorine” the entire drive home.

Precision Timing

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Why is there always that one kid?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well while his step mom that is only ten years older than he is and has a typical white trash name like Becky-Lynn is not paying attention to him while texting her friends about how much she hearts things as the older divorced moms make snide comments about her yoga pant and UGG boots combination that draw the attention away from her obvious new boobs?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well while his step mom that is only ten years older than he is and has a typical white trash name like Becky-Lynn is not paying attention to him while texting her friends about how much she hearts things as the older divorced moms make snide comments about her yoga pant and UGG boots combination that draw the attention away from her obvious new boobs at the exact same time that a lifeguard pulls the kid from the pool permitting him to projectile vomit all over the pool deck?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well while his step mom that is only ten years older than he is and has a typical white trash name like Becky-Lynn is not paying attention to him while texting her friends about how much she hearts things as the older divorced moms make snide comments about her yoga pant and UGG boots combination that draw the attention away from her obvious new boobs at the exact same time that a lifeguard pulls the kid from the pool permitting him to projectile vomit all over the pool deck at the precise moment I have decided that I need to work on my cardio by swimming because my body hurts from head to toe from shoveling snow off roof tops for more than six hours a day for the past week and I get splashed with frosting blow back all over my feet and legs making it look like I had stuck my lower half into a unicorn’s vagina?

More importantly, why is that kid always a Ginger?

Hating Ginger

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I remember the first kid that ever beat me up.

First grade is rough enough to begin with what with the no more afternoon naps and a full day of school. It’s also the stepping stone for the pecking order that will exist for most kids for the rest of their lives. So when I decided that I wanted to play in the sandbox with the metal Tonka trucks that have left more skulls dented than Mike Tyson’s fists at the same time as Billy Leurman I knew it would end badly.

Billy was doomed from the start to be picked on. His daily attired consisted of a yellow button down shirt and a bow tie that must have been purchased at the nearest Big and Clowny. Coupled with the fact he had no discernible difference between the width of his neck and the width of his head, it left him looking exactly like a number two pencil. Right down to the eraser. His fire engine red hair was the source of much consternation as he was the only Ginger in the entire school. It took one simple remark about his nose that was perpetually running into his mouth and the tongue that seemed to be constantly licking it to have him swing a right at me that left my nose bleeding and my cheeks burning with embarrassment. It was hard enough being a chubby little six-year-old but to be embarrassed in that fashion was something that I couldn’t leave unresolved.

I walked the long hallway to the fitness studio dreading another cardio funk dance session to “Groove Is In The Heart” by Dee-Lite. I couldn’t make more wrong steps than I did the previous week. It simply wasn’t possible. It was bad enough to see myself do it in the mirror but it was another thing to do it in front of the Butt Cleavage Brigade.

My foot steps faltered as I rounded the corner and saw something I was totally unprepared for. There, standing in the fitness studio, was another guy. I had a momentarily gay squeal escape me before I covered my mouth. There was no way I could possibly embarrass myself now. Not with another guy to at least divert at least some of the disaster. His attire was fairly similar to mine with a compression shirt and long shorts right down to garrishly colored shoes with the exception of a ball cap he had on.

” I am ever glad there’s another guy here tonight,” I laughed as I walked over with my hand extended.

” Dave,” He replied clasping my hand. It took a second for me to notice the smattering of freckles up his arm as I was transfixed by the fact he was a Ginger. The tell-tale Wendy’s red hair was poking out from the sides of his ball cap.

“Jack,” I said trying not let my voice betray the momentary lapse six-year-old me had into mild trepidation. I wasn’t that kid. Hadn’t been in a very long time so what did I have to worry about. I brushed it off and was just happy that I wouldn’t be the only one floundering around.

” Last weeks class was……” I managed to get out before Dave shot around me and grabbed the bucket of skipping ropes that had just walked into the room.

“Here Kim,” Dave blurted like a wind up yappy dog in a cable knit cardigan ” Let me take those from you.”

In a half a heart beat, the dynamic in the room shifted from one of two guys standing against the tyranny of the Vagina World Order to grade one all over again. A huge smile was plastered all over Dave’s face as he trailed behind Kim handing out skipping ropes and agreeing with every squeak her shoes made. I could hear my teeth grinding in my ears as I looked at the predicament I was now in. Not only was Dave a Ginger but a teacher’s pet as well.

My heart sank as I looked at the limp dangling noodle of rope in my hand as they passed by and flopped it in my hand. I felt like a white girl having sex with Kobe Bryant. All that length and no idea what to do with it. My inability to skip went hand in hand with my inability to dance. I could do all the moves but I couldn’t put them together into anything that didn’t look like a full body dry heave.

The warm up started with some stretching and then progressed into different levels and speeds of skipping rope. I looked like a cross-eyed cowboy trying to rope a three-legged goat wearing an afro wig. Dave was skipping like the Brooklyn public school system double dutch team. I got so frustrated at the four-minute mark that I fired the rope across the room like a used condom and just jumped in place.

” Everybody ready to take it to the next level ,” Kim yelled into her Britney Spears head mic. The girls all responded with their usual “WOO” and Dave answered right along with them garnering a beaming smile from Kim. I could feel my six-year-old inner child cringing a little as the Ginger teachers pet lead the pack in a series of moves that made Flashdance look like hopscotch. Dave looked over and gave me that knowing look that said I couldn’t keep up. I felt that same feeling I did when Billy walked over and punched me in the face. That embarrassing indignation.

“Okay,” Kim called out ” It’s time for some old school sports fitness. Everybody on the line for suicides.”

I worked my way between Dave and two yoga short divas and gave him a half-smile. Kim switched on some dance beat song and yelled “Go”. I bolted of the line in step with Dave and we raced out and back stride for stride. I could feel the lactic acid building up in my muscles and I smiled. The girls were passing between us as we raced back and passed between

“Almost” I thought barely containing my grin.

Basic body science dictates that as your muscles burn they create chemical reactions. Those reactions often create gases. Mainly carbon dioxide but sometimes methane. Methane usually only has one way out of the body.

I drove my legs at the floor and bolted ahead of Dave. I looked at the clock. It was going to be close. It was going to be exceptionally close. I was separating from the girls and dropping to Dave’s other side with every pass. I saw Kim look at the clock and I could almost hear her intake of breath as she readied herself to stop us. I paused on the far side of the room briefly and looked up to see Dave and the girls running towards me. I bolted for the other side of the room as Kim called the exercise to a halt.

I stood looking at everyone’s reflection in the mirror as the girls began gulping down air. They quickly stopped and looked at each other before taking dainty sniffs and looking at Dave. Dave grinned at them and they looked at him with disgust. I smiled as they sniffed again and walked away as quickly as possible. My brief pause on that side of the room allowed me to drop a monster fart that they had all run into and stopped. I heard them whispering about how gross it had been to eat that redheaded guys fart and I busted out laughing.

I walked out the glass doors and looked down to see six-year-old me walking beside me. I reached down and took his hand. I couldn’t let the ghost of Ginger bother him anymore. All it took was timing ,chemistry and a broccoli smoothie.

The Last Man Standing Story

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Cross fit must be the anti Fight Club because the first rule of Cross Fit is you never shut up about Cross Fit. I don’t know anyone that has taken even a single class that cannot bring it up in every conversation they have with absolutely everyone.

Last summer, I had trained for and competed in a Zombie Run that was essentially a five kilometer uphill climb of three lengths up and around a ski hill. I turned in what I figured was a respectable time for my first timed race and was standing at the finish line panting like a dog in heat watching lesbian poodle porn when I say a group of high fiving young men who could have been on the cover of any issue of Modern Fitness Modeling For Douches. Each of them were wearing a black form-fitting t-shirt emblazoned with the name of the newest Cross Fit gym in the area. They had absolutely crushed the course and looked like they had barely broken a sweat. I was utterly exhausted from cross-country sprint but promised myself that my next race would be a much better result.

I was leafing through the program book at my gym when I saw they were now offering a “Cross Fit” style course. Apparently Cross Fit is a copy righted name so unless you have express written consent to use it they send a group of compression shirt wearing thugs in day glow green shoes to your house where they beat you half to death, impregnate your daughter and steal all the change off your dresser unless you promise never to utter the word again. I knew if I wanted to close the gap between cross-country running on my island and the ridiculous fitness level I saw that day I was going to have to find a way to push myself.

The night of the first class, I geared up and popped my headphones in. Pounding drum beats filled my ears courtesy of Avenged Sevenfold and I shook my testicles into a more comfortable position. I was ready for anything the class had to throw at me. I stalked down the hallway like a wolf hunting prey and rounded the corner towards the doors already open awaiting my arrival.

I was greeted by a tall, smiling woman in the shortest yoga shorts money could buy. Her bright and cheery demeanor completely disarmed me but not as much as the other people already waiting for the class to start. I entered the room to see a group of young women clad in matching yoga pants and tank tops. It took less than half a heart beat to notice a very distinct lack of penis in the room. I shrugged and hoped at least one other guy would show up albeit fashionably late but realizing that a guy who showed up fashionably late on purpose was likely going to be wearing yoga pants and wishing his outie was an innie.

” Okay everybody,” the instructor called out as she adjusted her headset ” My name is Kim and welcome to instability training.”

A chorus of clapping and woos responded to her and I chuckled a bit. Woo girls. Just my luck.

” If you will all grab a BOSU and a set of weights we will get warmed up,” Kim said as she motioned to the blue mushroom-shaped half balls. Before I could make an ill-timed joke about blue balls, I looked at the stack of small hand weights. The heaviest they had been ten pounds and there was no way I was going to get much out of that.

” I am gonna grab some weights from the gym,” I said in a tone that must have channeled Chris Farley in “Tommyboy” looking for the weight room because Kim gave me a look normally reserved for three-legged kittens with a hair lip.

” I will be right here,” Kim replied enunciating each word and nodding after each syllable to be sure I understood. I could tell she was looking for an excuse to pat me on the forehead.

I walked down the hall wondering which of the Little Rascals was her favorite and grabbed a couple of heavy dumb bells. If I was going to do a girls workout I was at least going to look like a guy doing it. I had just made it back to the place I had picked out in time to join the gyno Canadians in the warm up. I snickered as the beads on sweat started to show on everyone else and I hadn’t even taken a deep breath yet. Then my worst fear was realized.

I can’t dance. I have about as much rhythm as lava lamp and am just as wobbly. Watching me was like watching someone dry heave. Kim led the group through a series of steps that left me gasping to keep up. I was bouncing on the hall ball in what I figured was perfect timing only to have my feet tangle up with the girl beside me resulting in some unintentional butt touching.

” Okay,” Kim called out, ” Let’s grab the heavy weights.”

Finally, I thought. Something I could handle.

What followed was a disaster of recockulous proportions. Ten reps into a combination move that involved balancing on a giant rubber ball doing shoulder presses while at the same time executing what must have been the crane kick from “The Karate Kid” with a yoga pose that could only be described as “Crotchal Nightmare”, I was a sweaty mess. I looked at the clock. Twenty minutes into an hour class. I looked like I had run the New York City marathon pushing a wheel barrow full of pickled pig’s feet. My muscles were screaming from the weight but there was no way I was going to let a bunch of jazzercising girls see me go down.

” Everybody ready to take it to the next level ?” Kim laughed into her mic while eyeing me in the mirror. A round of “woo”s that would have done Ric Flair proud covered the sound of my tears hitting the floor. We all dropped our weights and sat down on the floor. I resisted the urge to vomit into my water bottle so no one saw.

” Feet up on the ball,” Kim called out and I laid back on the floor.

“Thrust up,” I heard and turned my head to see yoga clad crotches sky-high. I burst out laughing. I was Robinson Crusoe trapped on Camel Toe Island. A series of moves followed after the thrusting that brought my eye line to Gina Town with nowhere else to look. I couldn’t help but continue to laugh. I decided I only had one safe place to look. Right at my groin. I figured if nothing else all the girls in the class would think I was a typical guy and fascinated with my junk.

Mercifully the class ended quickly there after. Apparently time flies when you are laughing at floating vulva. The girls were continuing to woo it up and I just sat on my giant blue balls staring at the floor. I wiped the sweat running from my bald head and saw Kim giving me a look I was unprepared for.

It was almost pity. She had kicked my ass with a class I had never seen a single guy take and likely with good reason. Especially those of us that can’t do the Running Man while holding a weighted bar in our butt cheeks.

” You okay ?” Kim asked as I gracelessly stood up.

” I think so,” I replied with a shake of my head that indicated the opposite.

” Well I hope you come back next week,” Kim said with a smile ” It’s yoga boot camp. You should consider getting some yoga pants so you can keep up with the rest of the girls.”

The Snow Days and Snow Birds Story

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I love snow days as much now as I did as a kid. Waking up to a blanket of white covering the ground and bus cancellations on the radio generally has me skipping down the hallway in my Superman pyjamas towards a bowl of Apple Jacks and reruns of Masters of the Universe on Teletoon Retro. Even better is when my kids have to go to school and it’s still snowing hard enough for me to have the day off. It’s like a mini vacation where the possibilities are as endless as my imagination. More often than not I just end up spending far too much time in the bath tub enjoying some time with my Spider-man bubble bath or masturbating but today I decided to do the healthy thing and head into the gym early.

It’s a very rare occurrence that I get to the gym before the vast assemblage of teenagers that simply take up space texting or lounging on the gym equipment that I want to use. I usually just growl at them from under the cowl of the hoodie I wear to the gym but to be honest today I just wasn’t in the mood to do that. Much to my delight, it was a veritable wasteland. Well, other than the few elderly people on either treadmills or exercise machines designed to be easy on their fragile bones.

I had just gotten myself set up with the array of weights I would need beside an incline bench and cranked up Five Finger Death Punch to brain melting levels when I felt the whisper of a fingertip tapping my bare shoulder. Startled, I turned around to find the smiling face of a woman easily in her late seventies. I almost laughed at her baby blue velour track suit but she was talking before I could even manage that. I popped my earphones out to catch what she was saying.

“…… working?” She finished.

” I am sorry ma’am,” I replied politely ” What’s the problem?”

” There doesn’t seem to be any training staff around and I can’t seem to get the machine working,” She sighed and I looked over at the recombinant bike she was pointing her albino white finger at. I smile politely and headed over to look at the bike. I glanced at the sign up board and it appeared that no one had noticed the bike wasn’t working.

I pushed the start button and nothing happened. I looked the machine over and rubbed the back of my head before noticing that it was simply unplugged.

” Here’s the problem,” I said as I bent down to grab the plug and the instant my fingers touched the cord I felt the whisper of something graze the hip of my gym shorts. I looked to my side as I plugged the bike back in and saw the senior woman shift slightly to one side and as she did her open palm slid over my ass cheek and cupped lightly before moving away. I stood up stock straight and saw her moving towards the seat. She smiled serenely as she pushed the button to start the workout and the television screen pulled up some banal looking talk show.

`Thank you  so much,` She said with a lingering pat on my arm and I smiled back. The hero complex sated once again, I headed back to my workout. Another just as elderly woman had joined my grey haired damsel in distress and they began talking about whatever it is that people talk about when they have lived to that age. Every so often I would catch them looking at me and I smiled politely but then stopped. I wondered briefly if they were talking about the grabassery that had likely only taken place in my head. I thought that way as I hammered through my last set and I set the weights down just as they stood up. I shook my head slightly at my own over active imagination until the purple suited woman turned slightly towards me and winked.

I am a huge believer in the double standard and had an ancient man gotten handsey with some of the Barbies at my gym they would have dragged him out by his old dangley balls where as all I could do was laugh as hard as I have in a long time at the saucy old whore.

Interlude – Squat

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People often commit to way too much. Too much time at work, too many activities on their schedule and trying desperately to squeeze out as many kids as that “961 Kids and Counting” woman. I can’t help it. She gives me the shudders. Having sex with her must be like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. You could likely throw a dildo at her the size of a basketball and get nothing but net.

There are however commitments people make and after last week I will never look at my commitment to the gym the same way.

I had been working out pretty heavy and loaded up the squat rack with two hundred and eighty-five pounds and ground out an agonizing final set. Its been a while since I could squat that much and was quite proud that surgically reconstructed bionic leg held up for the duration. I had just started to take the weights off when a very unassuming guy walks up and asked if I was done. When I nodded, barely able to get the words out, I asked if he wanted anything left on for him.

He said to leave the big plates on and he began to stack more and more weight on. I think my eyes bulged as I watched him load four hundred and fifty pounds on to the bar and settle underneath it. I casually but concerned asked if he wanted a spot and he waved me off as he stepped back with the massive load on his back.

Yes. I said massive load on his back. Get your mind out of the gutter. Pervert.

I moved away to the racks of dumbbells and grabbed a set of to do lunges with but kept an eye on the guy to see if he collapsed under the weight. You have to understand, this guy was holding over double his body weight and looked like he would buckle. He slowly dropped down and just as he reached the point he would press back up, I heard it.

A fart rippled out of the guys shorts followed closely behind by a squishing noise that truly couldn’t have been good. I didn’t want to ask but you could clearly tell he had just shit his pants. His eyes went wild as he dropped the weight to the lower tier of the rack and ran for the door clutching a poop against his ass. I busted out laughing and sat down on a bench to catch my breath as I replayed the image over in my head.

A few minutes later I stood slack-jawed as the guy came back in and started taking weights off the bar. He didn’t say much as he was doing it and I was too afraid to ask if he needed help as I think I would have laughed all over again. To my total disbelief, the guy started loading up weights again but stopped around four hundred. He once again settled under the bar and stepped back with the weight on his shoulders.

Cringingly, I watched as he lowered himself and then blasted out a set of eight reps. It was painfully evidenced by the bulge of his sack protruding from the bottom of his shorts that he had simply tossed his undies in the trash, wiped himself off and decided to lower the weight a little. I figured at any point he was either going to blow a nut out the bottom of his nut sack or shit himself again. As he finished, he looked proudly at bar.

I realized I had never been that committed to a set of any lift that I would go right back at it after shitting myself. That and they make guys gym shorts way to absorbent of odor cause as he walked by me he smelled like he had pooped out a basket of onion rings covered in chicken gravy.