Day 2 of working out at the gym: NOW I remember why I loathe it.
Does your gym play horrible music? I mean, like, nauseatingly, despicably, mind-wrenchingly horrible music?
I think I’m pretty tolerant of other people’s tastes (no I’m not). I listen to just about anything, from latin jazz to death metal to motown. I have even been known to bust a move to a little Justin Timberlake when the mood strikes, or geek out about bad 90s pop tunes (I’m talking to you, Janet).
I’m not unique; I certainly don’t expect everyone to have the same appreciation for Circus of Dead Squirrels as I do, but this stuff in the gym cannot by any sane person’s standard be considered music.
I would say it’s techno/pop but that would be doing an injustice to both techno and pop. It’s the kind of rubbish where they take a song, stick a techno beat behind it, and voila: crap. I actually heard the techno remix versions of Riders on the Storm and Edge of Seventeen. It made me die a little inside.
Why didn’t I just crank my iPod and quit bitching? Well, I tried that. But unfortunately I could still clearly hear it over my own music. I went to the front desk and politely asked the sullen 14-year-old glued to her Facebook profile if she could turn down the music. She Looked at me and turned it down about .00001 of a decibel. For.the.love.of.god.
For a while, I was so annoyed and grossed out, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I looked around at the other people in the gym, wondering if anyone was struggling as much as I was. I probably had this pained look on my face that people mistook for physical discomfort; it had nothing to do with exercise. I was “working out” in a general sense, but my chi or my mojo or whatever you wanna call it, was toxic.
I finally found a happy place on the bike and was able to shift my focus away from the blare and work up an impressive sweat.
And now, I’m feeling pretty swell actually. I’m cleaning the house and having a beer and a snack. =)
I bought a(nother) jar of guindilla peppers at TJs and man, I have just been eating those guys like popcorn. They’re kind of like sport peppers, but skinnier.
And…new beer! The Mr. and I watched the “bockumentary” American Beer last night and I came out of it with loads of new beers I want to try.
This is Adam.
It’s not his fault. These things happen. I stuck this poor soul in the freezer for a few minutes to chill him up while I was vacuuming; I take full responsibility.
However, what I did drink did not disappoint me. It’s thick. It looks like a stout but it’s actually an “hearty old world ale.” 10% ABV and 50 IBUs. Mine is from Batch 75 — no year; it’s supposed to age well.
Side note: I kind of hate buying beers that get better with age, because I just know I’m not going to be able to wait long enough.
All right. I’m off to finish vacuuming and eat another guindilla pepper. Y’all be good to each other.
(blog title reference: Judybats, Pain Makes You Beautiful. 1993)