Poems from the gym
Recently, my friend Matt Scoletti gave an inspiring speech about fitness which, begrudgingly, got my butt off the couch and back to the gym. Matt is an Iron Man competitor, which, to my dismay, has absolutely nothing to do with Robert Downey Jr.
Scoletti even trained with the Navy SEALs.
Side note: SEAL stands for Sea, Air, and Land. I know, they should be the SELs, but whatever. They are not named after those sea mammals that do tricks at the circus. Personally, I don’t know why the Navy named its most elite fighting force after the big, blubbery beasts that hang out on the docks and bark like angry dogs while sunning themselves, but I didn’t name them. I would have found a cool acronym that lined up to SHARK like Seafarers who Hunt, Attack, Rescue, or Kill.
But I digress, like I do. At the gym, I have trouble keeping my mind occupied while I try – emphasis on try – to become stronger, faster, and thinner. I’ve taken to writing poetry about my sad activities at LA Fitness. It’s a diversionary tactic.
Without further ado, here is, “Poems from the Gym: A Slimmer Volume of Me,” a selection. My hope is that you can enjoy these verses leisurely or while sweating in your own favorite fitness center.
P.S. They don’t rhyme. I’m not that kind of poet.
The Violent Swimmer
Some swimmers slice across the pool like marlins
Zipping back and forth from one side to the other
Gently tapping the cool, blue-tiled walls, flipping their direction and coursing ever forward
Another swimmer, however, forcefully slaps the water with each stroke, flapping about
He propels himself forward with powerful kicks
Splashing along, as if dropping depth charges from a German U-Boat.
I’m two rows over and he’s splashed me in the eye.
I need goggles and a swim cap to guard me from his chlorinated spray.
Trending on the Treadmill
The TV screen on the treadmill gets six channels
Three of them are news, CNN, MSNBC and Fox
Dystopia delivered with cheerful smiles I switch to the Magnolia Network
“Maine Cabin Masters” plays on
Chase, Ashley, and Ryan transform an abandoned cabin
I walk, sometimes running in place as the show drones on
Two miles later, the cabin goes from shack to chic
If only I could renovate my body with time-lapse photography
But I am in the place where I started
Walking nowhere, progress unknown.
Ode to the Butterfly Curl
Ah, the Butterfly Curl, you are an inviting contraption
One of the few machines that offers me a seat
Yes, I’ll sit down, you deceptively simple torture device
Once safe on your thin, black cushion, I grab your padded bars
Arms up like Evita Perón addressing a crowd, or scoring a touchdown
I pull your metal bars toward me
Underneath my chest, like plastic bags filled with guacamole (the kind you’d find in Costco), jiggles as pectoral muscles strain.
Fourteen more reps
I may die first.