Your WCW pays top dollar for an hour long workout class, shows up, and then does bare minimum in the back corner. It’s me. I’m your WCW.
I can practically hear the yoga mats fishtail across the gym floor as several perky middle aged women gladly assert their superiority in their strut toward the mirror. How they manage to move anything with a golfball sized wedding ring is a mystery to me. I so desperately want to shout, you know you could take that off right? But as I peer down at my feeble body, the decision to speak is made for me.
The muscular moms set up shop on either side of the instructor. One of the women kicks off the locker room gossip with a story about her son’s recent decision to be anything but a STEM Major. They’re either entirely shocked, or have no idea what STEM means. Meanwhile, I’m stationed in the back, sporting an oversized t-shirt, thinking to myself that they’d never recognize me on the street due to my success in being a human optical illusion.
That story has no truth or meaning whatsoever. It’s only goal was to entertain a scene for those of you who have the pleasure of saying you’ve never attended a workout class. For convenience sake, let’s just say I have no right in being there.
Being the weakest person in a workout class is practically a part-time job. Day in and day out, I have to show up, flabby and alive, just to prove to everyone there that even though I’m extremely un-athletic, I definitely ain’t no quitter.
So every week I show up. I limit all my movement to the confines of my safe space and count the minutes until I can drink again (water, drink water again). If only I could just be fat and happy. Large and in charge.
In conclusion, this epidemic of health conscious lifestyles is zealously destroying my young adult life. For once, JUST ONCE, I’d like to sit in class eating the tater tots hidden in my cargo pants without someone making me feel like I have to hit the gym later.
I guess it be like that sometimes.