Porn Star and Pop Art

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I hit the gym pretty regularly. Not because I am in super-fantastic shape and want to walk around with my shirt hiked up to show my abs (yes, Side Hat from the gym, I’m talking about you), but because it helps with just about everything. I always find that, when I stop working out, I feel more tired, more cranky, and generally more crappy. Which means less things, including writing, getting done.

(Also, I have this theory that my brain is like a garden hose: if you don’t turn it on blast every so often to wash it out, it ends up full of crap. Except the crap is less pieces of dead leaves and more pieces of dead thoughts. Actually, I don’t even know if that’s true about garden hoses, or if I just made it up. Anyway.)

But it’s not always easy to convince myself to work out. For example, this was a rough approximation of my morning:

7:00: Curse as alarm goes off, wondering why it feels so goddamned early.

7:01: Remember about Daylight Savings Time, and curse the guy who invented it instead, the rat bastard.

7:30 : Breakfast with The Husband. Communication reduced to grunts over coffee.

8:00: Husband to work, I to coffee maker for second cup. Wonder if it will be enough to give me the energy to work out.

8:20: Nope.

9:00: Arrive at the gym via the sorcery known as Sucking It Up.

9:05: Try to figure out if there’s any way to do the squat that doesn’t make my shorts ride up so high I’m at serious risk of exposing ass cheek.

9:06: Nope.

9:20:  Finish weights and start to run the track. Wave to Flat Iron and Chatterbox. (I should explain: when you go to the gym at roughly the same time most days, you usually see the same people. Since we rarely communicate beyond the nod-and-smile and the ‘are you finished with that dumbbell?’, I tend to nickname them based on whatever stands out for me.) Look for Yankee, but don’t see him. Keep an eye out for Porn Star (an older man who once accused me and my friends of being porn stars based on the fact that we all have visible tattoos. Kind of an asshole.) but also don’t see him.

9:25: Spend a couple of laps deciding what I would call myself if I only ever saw me at the gym. Eventually decide on either Anger Management (my concentrating-on-work-out face looks a lot like other people’s I-will-end-you face) or Pop Art (based on the shorts I wear, which my mate Krys once called ‘Andy Warhol bright’).

9:30: Start to imagine characters in my story working out. A couple of them fall down. Wonder how I can use this in what I’m currently writing.

10:00: Realize I went over my usual run time because I was distracted by story instead of concentrating on how much my legs burn.

10:01: Realize my legs burn.

10:02: Decide to run another couple of laps anyway, because screw you, legs. Also, I want to finish thinking about that scene.

10:10: End workout, covered in sweat, but more awake than a whole pot of coffee could make me. And with some new story ideas. Look forward to going home, showering, and then starting the day’s writing. Also putting my feet up, because, dear God, my legs are tired.
tired
I do think that this helps with the writing, and not just because it makes me less likely to fall down and die before I get any writing done. If nothing else, coming up with all those nicknames has to be creative, right?
 

 

 

One thought on “Porn Star and Pop Art

  1. eryn

    I am really enjoying this blog. Especially when the gym characters brought back so many horrifying memories. Very enjoyable ready tho :)

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