this post to return to the diary than once
The other day I joined the gym. Mind you, is a small step for man all but a big step for me. At first, anyway. The environment of the gym is not for me. I was much more comfortable Italian military plane flying to Sardinia, with a hand attached to a metal pipe that passed over my head, and sitting on a chair made from folded strips of synthetic material designed by a sadist . I was more at ease, I swear, while we were chatting with the officers of the navy, army and air force all strutting, proud and sex life difficult. And God knows how much hate and fear le divise. Ma ero più a mio agio.
La palestra nel mio immaginario è piena di tipi grossi e rasati che entrano già in canottiera anche d'inverno, hanno una borsa piena di tuorli d'uovo liofilizzati che ingoiano con noncuranza fra una serie (dieci milioni di addominali alti) e l'altra, usano solo pesi sopra i 50 chili e scherzano fra di loro prendendosi a pugni sulle spalle.
Chiaramente, la palestra dove vado io non è così (in realtà, nessuna è così).
Stasticamente le palestre sono piene di donne di mezz'età che cercano di non farsi venire la pancia correndo per mezz'ora sullo stesso posto, sollevando pesi con le caviglie o cose del genere, oppure da vecchie signore dallo sguardo serafico prese metaphorically pallette from a stout fellow in the fitness room: "One, Two, Three One Two Three! ON THOSE LEGS! One two three, etc." (sometimes not metaphorically, taken pallette). Then there are the two that olds chatting all the time, the daughters of MTV, which in the end make the bike just repeating that, yes, tonight will eat both youghurt only one, I swear. Of course back home will not resist the steaming pasta ready. And two weeks time will discover that, yes, television, women have the flat stomach with muscoletti of relief, but actually prefer to think of the children to be leaner of his girlfriend, or at least would have something to feel around the waist which does not sia l'osso dell'anca o un addominale stile vincintrice-dei-centro-metri-piani-con-pochi-ormoni-maschili-in-corpo.
Chiariamoci, occasionalmente c'è anche la ragazza carina che, come me, viene in palestra per non ridursi a uno stecchetto ambulante privo di difese immunitarie.
Ma non serve a niente.
Ne basta uno. Basta un tipo rasato grosso che usa pesi da cinquanta chili, con i guantini con i buchi che coprono solo il palmo, che gira per la palestra con in mano dei dischi con un raggio superiore alla sua faccia, che utilizza in maniera sconosciuta affari somiglianti a macchine da tortura medievali. Ne basta uno, e mi riconvinco che aveva ragione il mio immaginario. Le palestre sono piene solo di tipi così.
Il tipo sopra mi ha detto the assistant waiter that I should make the card has red hair. I do a couple of rounds like zombies, I can not find anyone with red hair. I begin to look at. Perhaps I was mistaken for an infiltrator or something. With just two days in the gym to be less skinny than me. Warms me on the exercise bike.
I swear, uncomfortable. I always expect the kind arrivals shaved or assistant waiter and tell me something like "If you breathe through your mouth, you are making an effort anaerobic" or "Where are your shoes clean?". O: "The one with the mold's your towel?" Rather than "down from my tapiroulant" "It 's useless to look, there are no weights small enough for you" "Where are your shoes clean?" and things like that.
Among other things, after ten minutes of exercise bike that I realize I have not changed my shoes. But I can not go to change: it would be an admission of guilt.
Just when I finished all the exercises that I remembered the last time I went to the gym (2 years ago), I'm going to change. And while there are output, already completely changed the server room is revealed. While I'm there I'm going to go up the stairs in jeans, wearing the jacket and backpack in hand, there un'assistentedisalafania. A guy is talking to a bald middle-aged lady, probably is explaining how to avoid dying if the gym shaved suddenly increased the speed tapiroulant of a joke. And 'he the assistant waiter. It does not have red hair. Confused, I go back and check: no type shaved bald and type are two different types, even if they look like (without hair, large, tank tops and shaved).
Oh well, I survived on its own. I step out of the gym.
One small step for man ... whatever
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