Man likes to sleep.
And that is the understatement of the century. It is like saying the second World War was a minor disagreement or saying that our previous president was an esteemed gentleman who does not belong in jail. (Before you get your knickers in a knot, I’m from South Africa but if the shoe fits…) Man enjoys sleeping more than a teenage girl enjoys taking a selfie. Man will lie in bed on a Saturday morning and schedule his afternoon nap. Man would be an Olympian if sleep was an Olympic event. Man might even be the Olympic record holder for sleeping. I am modest enough to know that the World record holder for sleeping belongs to Kolbe, our daschund. The great thing about sleep, besides doing nothing in a horizontal position, is that you get better at it, as you grow older. Which is the only thing that gets better as you grow older. That and being able to tell young people to fuck off.
Another awesome thing about age is that you eventually reach the point where you can grow hair in places most people don’t even consider places and gravity, the son of a bitch, becomes a nemesis. The impact of gravity on your self esteem is directly proportional to your age and weight. Let’s just cut through the bullshit, I’m not getting any younger. Man has a dad-bod. And not in a sexy way.
A long, long time ago Man looked like Daniel Craig walking out of the sea. I’m not vain, I’m quoting a friend, a friend who I think is using extremely strong hallucinogenic drugs. Personally I have NEVER thought of myself as Daniel Craig but I’ll take it. Since the virus appeared two years ago, I stopped exercising because it was a brilliant excuse. Now I don’t like my reflection because it blocks out the sun. I need urgent intervention or I’ll end up looking like a beached whale in a speedo this summer. I had to do something.
Last week I decided to take up running. This week I decided to quit running. I now understand why people don’t smile when they run. And if you do find the odd person who does show teeth, it’s not a smile, it’s pain because running is shit.
I enjoy throwing my weight around, so weight training seems like a natural fit. In my Daniel-Craig-look-alike days I trained five days a week, early in the morning because I’m too tired, annoyed, fed-up, cranky or all of the above to do anything after work. Besides, training after work would interfere with my wine drinking.
I set my alarm for 05h00 because I’m not a fucking rooster. Man likes to sleep and needs motivation to wake up. I slammed the snooze button because I’m not a serial killer. I dozed off like a normal person. Wife kicked me in the ribs because she loves me and not because she was annoyed that the alarm went off at an ungodly hour and I fell asleep again. I dropped an f-bomb under my breath because I’m not stupid, Wife was semi-awake. I got up, my body made a weird noise and I dropped another one. I took a piss and dropped a couple more as I was waiting for my prostate to wake up. I flipped a bird to the mirror as I hanged over the basin, brushing my teeth and feeling sorry for myself. (I still do not understand why people avoid me in the morning.)
Anyhow, I got dressed in my best gym clothes and by best I mean the ones that still fit. I am not buying bigger shorts or shirts. Fuck fashion and fuck fat. I managed to not destroy the car reversing out of the driveway and was actively trying to wake up on route to the gym. When I got there, three minutes later, my one eye was already fully functional. I was kind of stoked and sort of psyched up for the session of hell that was waiting for me. Then my whole world crashed down like grandma’s tits when she takes of her bra…
The gym was closed.
Un-fucking-believable. I turned my car around to check if I was dreaming. I wasn’t. It was fate’s sick sense of humour, taunting me, destroying any hope I had of swearing less. I went through all five stages of grief in thirteen seconds flat and then cycled back to being utterly pissed off. Who can blame me? I interrupted my hibernation, squeezed into a t-shirt, faced the freezing temperature of winter and the only thing I can show for it is a bruised kidney.
I drove back home because what else could I do? Start a riot? Steal a barbell? Write a complaint? Sign a petition? Jog? Besides, breaking and entering is still illegal in this country, even though recent events might indicate otherwise. I was out of options so I got back into bed at 05h37 because it is too early to drink wine. At least on a weekday.
I made a quick stop at the gym before work to find an answer to the mystery as to why this specific establishment choose to ignore my personal needs, even though I am paying them a monthly
fortune fee to do so, as per my legal obligation because I once was young and innocent and signed my life away. The lady behind the counter informed me, in a condescending tone, that their great enterprise only opens at six in the morning, due to current Covid-19 lock down regulations in our country.
“We are at level three,” she said, “and will open at five once we are adjusted to level 2.”
I felt three little bombs explode in my head because I am fed up with my life being dictated by this virus. It didn’t help that she replied using the exact same tone I used when I made the inquiry. She basically told me that I was an hour early and I should just deal with it. Fate must have seen how precariously close I was to completely losing my shit because the phone rang and it ended our conversation.
Man left the building and arrived at work without destroying property or causing excessive bodily harm to anyone.
However, it is now a day later and his right eye is still twitching.