Me and New Year's Eve are not bros. I loath this sleep depriving evening as much as I do the annual waste of time spent on life changing resolutions. So on January 2nd my ride to the gym took forever. My stomach turned with the dread of walking into a zoo of New Year's Resolution cattle taking up space on all the cardio machines. I was once a member of the aimless walking slug people; searching the weight room for that magic machine to suck off thirty pounds of, "sure I'll have another serving of mash potatoes and gravy, honey." The blog post has been mentally prepared for some time. It was a whopper! One of those good ole, hard core "Yo mama joke," colossal burn on the herd of resolution makers. I was ready to people-watch hordes of good intentions walking with imaginary gold rings through the nose. Gym staff walking around with comic strip bubbles full of dollar signs as they up sell Mr. and Mrs. Fat American. But to my chagrin the cattle were nowhere to be found.
Same thing on January 3rd, and the 4th and the 5th. WTFreak!?!? I may have experienced a galactic anomaly at two different gyms . Today being another day I can only hope to see the mass of frumpy new faces just a few days away from going back into hibernation. However, I may have to stop jumping around every corner trying to scare the invading hordes of population Excuses. It's not good for my life span to startle a 250 pound meat head with my classic, "Go back to your shanties! E
llen ain't goning to watch herself!" I'll stick to blogging and passive aggression.
I will pass the balance of this post to my main man Jaron B. Krause and to give our readers the statistical reality of New Year's Resolutions ... Queue the professional's intro music!
This year has been a fluky anomaly here as well. I guess as a society this year we backed away from the fitness resolution like congress backing away from the fiscal cliff. Our check in numbers and membership sales are up, but no where near the three-fold history has promised. Literally, I got nothin'. No plausible explanation beyond the possibility that Little Debbie and Ronald McDonald have finally won the battle of the bulge. Was Colonel Sanders an actual military man? Maybe he was in charge of the commissary. Tonight I noticed that though the gym didn't feel any busier than usual, the parking lot was jammed with an inordinate number of cars. Until I walked by the aerobics room... Oh dear God! The Zumba class looked like a cross between Keystone Cops and the closing credits of the Benny Hill show! I haven't seen so many uncoordinated, overweight, middle aged white women since...this time last year. High comedy watching them attempt hip gyrating Latin dance set to hip hop. And the smell, dear God, the smell of that room! There was a low fog forming by 8 minutes in. I anticipate waking in a cold sweat tonight with that stench tattooed to the back of my nasal passages. Picture the Sideshow Bob shudder. So I had to run a report on our check in system: 77 members checked in for the first time on over 30 days, within the last hour! I don't make a lot of promises, but I promise no one is dance partying their way thin. Although, perhaps a fair share of those gullible trance dancers will contract some form of gastrointestinal inconstitution from breathing in a petrie dish of vaporized sweat for a straight hour. If reading that makes you wanna hurl, imagine how I feel. I've been infected, Like Agent Smith in the Matrix. Did I just go off on a tangent hinged on the questionable health implications of the inhalation of sweat?! I believe I did.
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