The Hanging Words

The Social Climber

Every part of me screams to go home after work. This has been a rotten day on top of a rotten week. Beyond the trickle of well-wishers and the slog of mediocre condensed fiction in my inbox, I can attest that sitting in wet pants and underwear for eight and a half hours will do something irreversible to your mood.

So when the quitting hour is upon me, I sit motionless in my cubicle for a few minutes, debating how disappointed in myself I'll be come tomorrow if I skip the gym today. I shouldn't feel too bad, right? It's not like I'm fucking off with nothing to show for it. I ran to that bus stop and I ended up walking all the way to work.

I let my head fall back and stare up at the corkboard ceiling tiles. I really don't want to exercise. I mean, I generally don't want to exercise, but at this moment the reluctance is tenfold its normal strength.

Alright, I bargain with myself. What if you do half the amount of time because you walked to work?

That satisfies me. When it comes to personal negotiations, I excel. So I grab my bag at once and descend into the basement.

I sometimes have to confess to myself that my ability to carry through on my eleven-month-old New Year's Resolution is not nearly as impressive as it might be, given that the major perk of 55 Rhodes Avenue is its basement gym. In fact, once you consider that startling revelation, it throws my previous four years of failed resolutions into a piteous light. Membership is fifteen dollars a month for all tower employees. So I've really had no excuse. Still, motivation beats accessibility as much as accessibility beats resources and resources beat motivation and so on and so forth.

Regardless, I descend into the basement.

It's a beyond decent setup: a couple rows of machines, a row of weights, a climbing wall, and a semi-enclosed basketball court all encompassed by a one-tenth-mile track. I swipe my card at the desk, they hand me a towel, and I make my way to the locker room.

Son of a bitch. I hadn't realized how much moisture jeans retain until the moment it comes time to undress. These aren't necessarily tight by today's standards, but the effort needed to remove them should stand as a testament to my perseverance. I guess when the material is sandwiched between your body and a seat cushion all day, there's not much breathing room. I refuse to dwell on this thought and finish changing.

Normally, I'd start on the track, but technically I've already done my distance for the day. I could go on the bike, but again, that's more legwork. Lifting weights is perhaps my least favorite thing of all time, so what the hell have I come here for?

I could do the wall.

That's one activity I haven't tried yet. Not because I have any issue with heights, I just feel as though hoisting myself up into the air is putting myself more on display than is ultimately necessary.

Thinking about it now, it's got to be a good substitute for lifting weights though. I'll trick my body into lifting itself. How about that?

I meander through the rows of instruments and other gym-goers—a collective of young-to-aging humans waging war against the symptoms of desk-body. Besides its incredibly convenient locale, one of the other benefits of belonging to my work gym is that there are very few meatheads in attendance at any given time. Sure, there are fit people, and every once in a while I'll catch an attractive glimpse of toned flesh—sue me, I'm a goddamn human—but in general, there's nobody around to make me feel like I'm not doing enough. I don't have a problem with someone who has muscles. In fact, I enjoy a nicely muscled human. I'm merely talking about the ripped, grunting-like-they're-excreting-a-lifetime's-worth-of-shit fuckwads who find a way to flex in your face when all you've asked them is whether or not they've seen your missing headphone. Those types.