I can’t go to the gym anymore–not that I have been on an even semi-regular basis. I just can’t do it. For the past three days, I’ve put on my sports bra and spandex, filled up my waterbottle, and put on my still-white tennis shoes, only to find myself still sitting on my couch an hour later, watching Legend on HBO. I think it has to do with two things:
1) I haven’t seen Girl with the Dragon Tattoo lately–and nothing makes me want to work out like seeing Rooney Mara’s coked-out ribcage.
2) Lack of a support system:
All of the guys I fantasize about when I work out aren’t exactly the kind of guys who would demand a bodacious bod in the woman they date. I think they’d sooner demand a thorough knowledge of the Periodic Table than a chix pack.
And I’m certainly not fantasizing about their bodies. My gym fantasies generally involve montages of studying for an AP English Wuthering Heights exam, a chaste kiss, and then an adorable water balloon fight. It’s the gayer bits of Dead Poets Society meets the paintballing scene in Ten Things I Hate About You. Except instead of beefy, foreign Heath Ledger, my gym fantasies star the following:
Fantasy: We’d discuss his collection of spores, molds, and fungi over a candybar before catching a latenight showing of Chimpanzee. He would not get choked up when one of the baby chimps inevitably dies, and awkwardly hand me his handkerchief.
2) Wash (Firefly/Serenity)
Why: He’s a leaf on the wind. And he almost makes the short-sleeved Hawaiian t-shirt look good.
Fantasy: After his wife Zoey finally leaves him for Mal (cue audience cheer!), he finds solace in our daily heart-to-hearts in Central Park. After a year or so of just friendship, I confess that I have romantic feelings for him, but he, still smarting from his wife’s abandonment, doesn’t reciprocate. I weep prettily and he kisses my hand in farewell. We end up getting together around age 60, until I die tragically in a Dante’s Peak-like volcano eruption.
Fantasy: We find an abandoned tree house and spend all of our time sneaking out at night to meet and share poetry with each other and roast marshmallows on a Bunsen Burner. Sometimes we quote The Sandlot. He eventually leaves me for Jennifer Love-Hewitt, who I call “Sweater Cows” in a fit of anger (because of her huge boobs).
Fantasy: We make out a lot and I try not to be bothered by him weighing less than me.
Fantasy: We just have lots of crazy sex.
I couldn’t even muster up the motivation when Lilly texted me, “oink oink.” All I could think of was Wilbur from Charlotte’s Web.