Metroblog

A one-time school project gone terribly, terribly wrong.

22 October 2008

So You Know You're Never Going to be a Rock Star, Right? #3

We all have moments when we realize that some invisible line in our lives has been passed, that our dreams have rather had the shine worn off of them. These little moments, in the aggregate, serve as notification to the thinking man (or person of other gender) that quiet desperation is more likely to be our life's path than riches, fame, and the adulation of millions.

For example: One of those little moments, for me, was the abrupt realization that I was unlikely to front a paying band again.

Don't get me wrong--it wasn't like I ever made enough off singing to buy a pool--or even a pool table--but there is satisfaction in having crisp, foldable recognition passed into your hand.

Today I had another little moment.

Avid Fans (all both of them) may recall that my weight is often near the top of my concern list, probably below money, and the reduction of my carbon skidmark for that matter, but above the condition of the shocks on my car at the moment, for example.

So I have lately taken to using the sandbag workout found here. And I'm guardedly optimistic that it's producing some results.

As someone going from zero, I'm currently using thirty rather than the reccomended fifty pounds, and I use weight plates stuffed into an old backpack rather than an actual sandbag, but I can now do two full circuits without risking my back, I think. But I'm reeeeeally paranoid about that, so thrity-five and two'll do for now.

However, one cannot surf the 'net for long looking for bare-bones fitness and conditioning routines without running into "The 300 Workout."

That title looks so wrong on the page--it should land there, sculpted in letters of stone and announced by the same guy who used to do all the movie trailers: THE ... THREEEEE ... HUNDRED ... WORKOUT!

At any rate, one link led to another, and I found myself on the web page of Gym Jones, which sculpted the bodies for the film for which the "program" is named. No relation to the crazed demagogue who killed his followers in one of the largest mass suicides since, coincidentally, the Spartans took on the Persians.

Or was it?

The page responding to opinions voiced by people who had heard of the program read pretty reasonably overall. Much of the philosophy seems sensible. However, there are some slightly amusing parallels with the other Jim Jones. First off is the page of "disciples." Which is an interesting word, when you think about it.

Then there's front page. It includes this phraes
"The support of a like-minded group, dedicated to The Art of Suffering, provides a safety net."
Okay, I'm pretty willing to accept that "No pain = no gain." Okay.

But suffering isn't a dammned art! People do it all the time, without prior experience or training, and the difference between me and thousands of gym rats not to mention churchgoers is that I don't believe it's a great and grand thing to suffer outlandishly in a needless cause.

So already there's some philosophical difference between me and Sr. Jones, G.

Now that alone wouldn't necessarily stop me from buying in. After all, I was a pretty much total peacenik at the time I joined the army, too.

But then I look at the pictures accompanying the page on Opinions. And I realized something.

This is a great workout--all that guff aside about deliberately inflicting mild torture on yourself (and paying someone to do it for you, no less--although I understand it's a service you can get for free in certain countries--Just ask your local RCMP, CSIS, or Canadian consulate to set you up an appointment).

It's just that I'm not interested.

I just find that I don't want the body shown in the final photo of the series on that page. Sure, it looks great--I'd have to beat the girls off with my veined biceps--that's probably one of the things they teach at Gym Jones. But I doubt it'd really be worth the effort.

At present I look more-or-less like the first photo. I don't think it's my natural shape. But neither is the final picture. I'd probably be good with Week eight. And I wouldn't have to spend two hours a day in a gym trying to maintain that shape, either.

I guess I just value my time and my comfort too highly to really, really wanna be a star at this stuff. Assuming for a moment that at the age of mumble-mumble I could possibly achieve that shape.

I suppose I'd just as soon spend that time blogging. And isn't that nice for us?

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3 Comments:

At 4:10 p.m., Blogger Philipa said...

I think I'm aiming for pear-shaped and shrinking breasts hanging down like puppies ears. I haven't achieved it yet but a few more years blogging and few more gallons of cheap chardonnay and I think I'll get there. The line for me was when my ex made it clear I was unnatractive, and I believed him. I realised I'd kinda fooled myself into believing I was attractive and actually the ugly girl at school that blokes kicked as I walked by was the real me.

 
At 4:21 p.m., Blogger Metro said...

Hah--you can't fool me. I've seen your picture!

Your ex is clearly, if any outside opinion should be necessary, in need of either optical or brain surgery or possibly both, possibly administered with a garden spade.

But dare to dream, eh? If pear-shaped and puppied is what you desire, I say pursue that goal!

Just a propos of nothing, I overheard a pair of youth the other day vouchsafing thus:

Youth One: "I'd hit that."

Youth Two (following his rapt gaze):"Ooooh yeeeeaaaah."

YO: "Hell, man, I'd hit that so hard that if you could pull me out they'd make you king of England."

I love sexual hyperbole.

 
At 2:21 a.m., Blogger Philipa said...

Just catching up after holidaying in mon caravan, while the rest of the country enjoyed snow!

Thanks, Metro. Superb sexual hyperbole. Excellent :-))

 

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