I had a funny essay started earlier.

It was entitled “Intellectual Man Candy”, and I swear, it’ll make you laugh.

But I can’t finish it right now.

Know how I know?

I mis-spelled the word “jet” and “stalker” earlier. (Let’s not get into the hows and whys with regards to my use of both words, okay?)

How for the love of all things good in this world can you not spell “jet”?

I’ve slept for 13 hours, and still look and feel like I’ve gone three rounds with “Ryan” the Sadist at CrossFit.

I think it’s a cross between swine-flu, TB, hypochondria and a touch of imagined herpes.

But I’m not a doctor.

I think it would be best if I held off on posting until I’m not under the influence of cut-rate Day-Quil and bad coffee.

At least I should be able to spell by then.

Time to take stock. I somehow doubt the city will allow me to hijack two fire department ladder trucks and issue a “race for glory” style test of manhood down the mean streets of Springfield. Nor could I ask him to deal with an unhinged meth-head wearing a chili-dog wrapper as a hat while claiming ownership of the dumpster behind the firehouse……these kinds of events don’t occur with enough consistency to hold his attention. Clearly, “Ryan” has the ability to crush me physically and he’s getting his masters degree in something, or so I’m told, thereby eradicating my ability to wipe the floor with him in a round of Celebrity Jeopardy. These are the kind of dilemmas that keep my cocktail tumbler full. My stress level was reaching red-line levels when I realized that the only dimension in which I could beat this man was in a bacon eating contest. As a child, I would eat raw bacon for sport. As an adult, I’ve been known to floss with bacon. When it comes to the fruit of the pig, few can match my ability to ingest such mass quantities of fried pork. I’m not proud of this fact. Also, there seems to be a very slim chance that frying bacon would be allowed at the gym, so again, another roadblock.

I can’t beat the man with wicked sarcasm and under-appreciated smart-assedness. No matter how many times I can dead-lift a broomstick, I won’t command his respect until somewhere near 300lbs. is on the bar. He’s not intimidated by my excessive body hair nor impressed by my ability to break a sweat just thinking about breaking a sweat.

And then it came to me in a flash of clairvoyance that can only come after several adult beverages……..what if I actually listened to “Ryan” and stopped trying engage him in this war of wills? What if it turns out that he’s not the devil incarnate but merely a man trying to better his fellow travelers through the regimen of physical fitness? How about enough bitching and on to lifting? Wouldn’t that be a better alternative than trying to undermine him as a trainer, a human, a person who cares about the physical well-being of his charges? Sweet Jews for Jesus, am I finally growing up?

Nah – that’s gotta be the rum talking. The plotting continues…….

Yesterdays workout at the Springfield CrossFit gym involved lifting these bars in a movement known as a “clean”. I’d describe it to you, but that would be akin to me describing cold fusion principles: I’d just be making it up. Here’s the downside of all this business – outside of some lame attempts in the past to bench press and curl, I’ve never in my life lifted weights, so I lack what some call “proper form”. Roughly translated, what this means is that while all the other people are pushing around the iron and getting all pumped up, I’m having fits in the corner and risking some serious back injury while making all the noises I assume you’re supposed to make while lifting weights. I don’t know, I’m just faking it the whole time. I grunt and heave and sweat a lot, but really, nothing’s getting done.

Unfortunately for me, this does not go un-noticed by the sadists, aka trainers, here at CrossFit. In order to protect his identity, I’ll call the trainer from yesterday “Ryan”, since his real name sounds exactly like that, but with a “B”.  So anyways, “Ryan” didn’t waste much time in sending me to my own corner of the mat and make demands that I show him my “form” with regards to this “clean” lift. Using only the bar. What follows does not please him, and I am guessing that is because it resembles the mating dance of an irritated baboon. Face red, sweat running down my leg hair, I set the bar back down with a self satisfied look on my face while “Ryan” looks at me as though he just caught me making love to trash can. He’s incredulous. I’m good with it. And ne’er the two shall meet. He spends the next half hour keeping tabs of my form, taking enough time out of coaching others to yell at me “ULI! Again! No, I don’t care about your “feelings”! AGAIN!“ (or something to that effect). I tried to shake my fist at him, but by this time, I’ve no strength left. It looks more like some sort of limp-wristed wave, matching nicely with the drool leaking out of the corner of my mouth. He continued to glare at me as though seriously considering outfitting me with a helmet to wear. He seemed to take offense that I refused to “open my hips” for him during these lifts, and that’s just because I’m not that kind of guy. I’m no man-slut, no exceptions; just ask anyone. No, scratch that, just take my word for it.

I can see that this “Ryan” character is not going to buy any of my formless bullshit, so I try in earnest to do it right. Out of 743 attempts I get it right exactly three times. That’s a number I can live with. “Ryan” can’t. The war of wills is going to be an ongoing engagement – but I recently recieved vital information that shall give me an unmistakeable advantage. Apparently he harbors an unhealthy fear of lobsters. No idea why, but when I head into the gym tonight? You bet your ass I’ll be toting a couple of fresh cockroaches of the ocean, one under each arm, ready to again do battle. And this time I’ll be sure to use the proper form.

So I sat back and watched with a smug laugh as Ray Romano (Everybody Loves Raymond) threaded the line between being “adorable” and “a horses ass” in the eyes of his wife. I thought Seth Rogen (Knocked Up) played the lovable relationship ignoramus very well as he learned to deal with a woman he impregnated after a one night stand. But these buffoon-like caricatures were merely an exaggeration of the notion of the clueless male, right?

Turns out once again, truth can be more idiotic than fiction. I am living proof of this. I wanted to write the tale down, so that as it gets embellished over the years, I’ll have something to point at as a way of keeping the story from growing too fantastic. It went down like this: if you’ve been reading these posts at all, you know that recently I became a member of the local Cross Fit Gym here in Springfield. I did this for several reasons, but primarily to keep from achieving a weight that is greater than the scale is able to produce. I’d like to be around for the kids, too. The Wife is joining the same gym this Saturday and is harboring great fear as to what the trainers are going to make her endure, and with good reason. Those trainers are sadistic health enthusiasts with a drive bordering on zealotry, and a knack for producing results. So, as I limp home from each session, I report to The Wife, giving her the details of the torture while moaning all the while. She’s flat out terrified, a fact I don’t help by pointing out to her that the gym is filled with like-minded youth, getting all fit and looking far too good.

I was excited to tell her yesterday, then, that I’d met a very nice lady working out there, around our age, who was interested in getting a new hair stylist. I piped up that my wife, soon to join this entourage of pain, is a stylist always happy to meet a new client. The Wife was pleased with this effort. And it was only in the summation of the story that I committed the ultimate faux-pas and made a statement that will follow me to my grave. When asked about this new acquaintance, I gave a brief description and ended it with….“she’s very attractive, an attractive older person”. TO BE CLEAR – I MEANT THIS IN TERMS OF THE NORMAL “YOUNGER SET” THAT IS AT THE GYM. When quizzed as to just how old this older person was, I said…..

“oh, you know, late thirties, maybe forty.”

This was not my finest hour.

The veritable shit-storm that followed, both in the house and online (thanks, Facebook status update followers! Glad to know just what an idiot I am!), has only served to further diminish whatever dignity I once held. There is no backpedaling from this one. There is no excuse. There is only one option, and that is to go down with the ship, which is not a problem for me, since I seem to step in it more and more these days. I’d like to think that our lives are reasonably more intricate and complex than a sitcom could successfully portray, but I’d just be wrong about that, too. And, unfortunately for her, it seems I never learn.