Bacon Bits

Just how boring has my life become here in San Diego? Here’s a perfect, hard-to-believe example: I’ve become a gym rat.

As a member of the 24 Hour Fitness chain, I can avoid working out wherever there’s a local outpost. I’ve avoided exercise everywhere from Honolulu to Houston. There happens to be a 24 Hour Fitness on Miramar Road, just about 10 minutes from my parents’ house. I’ve actually visited this gym a few times over the years, usually in a desperate effort to work off just one home-cooked meal.

But with the gym now being one of my few good reasons to leave the house, I’m really into it. It started slowly at first, a quick 30 minute workout on the cross-trainer. I was laughably sore the next day. But it also felt kind of good. So I went back the next day. And the day after that, until it became a daily routine. And once this week when I woke up unusually early, I actually went to the gym TWICE in one day.

The funny thing is, there’s zero incentive at this gym for anything other than working out. The clientele is not that hot, surprising given its location across from Miramar Marine Corps air station. But the Marines probably have their own concrete, steel and hidden webcam-studded facilities on base. I should borrow one of my parents’ cars with the military access stickers and do a little investigating. I’d probably be laughed right out of the building, if not actually thrown out for ogling. Or otherwise.

Back to my gym. It’s ugly, with whitish/pinkish walls. It’s not that big, only one story, about the size of a roller rink because that’s what this building used to house. There’s no pool. The steam room is decidedly un-titillating. There aren’t many TVs in the cardio areas and the few they have are tuned mostly to boring sports channels.

But have iPod, will work out. Thankfully I’ve got some really good breakbeat and hard house stuff on mine. It’s almost ancient in electronica terms, but it works.

I often wonder if people can tell that I’m actually kind of doing tiny dance moves in my cardio, or how clear it is that my pace and movements are tied to the music I’m listening to. At this gym, I couldn’t care less if anyone noticed. Maybe that’s why I’m having so much fun at the gym--- I’m following that horrible mantra seen on inspirational posters, greeting cards and online profiles: “dance like no one is watching.” Eeesh. I’d better stop thinking that way or I’ll never go back.

Actually, I’ve caught a few people checking me out. Not really in a “nice moves” kind of way…. more like, “Are you really a firefighter?” because I always wear a fire department t-shirt to the gym. It probably frightens people to think that I’m the guy coming to the rescue.

I was really looking forward to returning home with a Southern California tan. As we’ve had way more rain here than in Seattle, the only way that’s going to happen is if I pop into a Mystic Tan booth before I hit the road. Even a fake bake would look a lot better on a slightly tighter bod.

Besides the gym, I’ve been spending a lot of time online. So maybe my gym-going is also a result of wanting to have the kind of body that would allow me to pose shirtless on a webpage. Not that I would ever do that in a million years, at least not in some posed shot that I had a friend take for me, or the classic “headless man in the bathroom mirror” solo shot. But it would be nice to feel like I could do that, if I wanted to.

There is one nice shirtless shot of me up on the web for all the world to see. But in the picture I have the aesthetic advantage of being in a hot tub with my arm around a sexy, wet, shirtless and smiling guy. And I think the most attractive aspect of that picture is how happy and at ease we both seem, in general and with each other. I look at that picture when I want to remind myself how it feels to be truly comfortable, and how good that looks on me. It feels good to look good, whether from situps or satisfaction.

Will all this working out continue when I do get home? It had better. I’ve got televisions to appear on this summer.