Nietzsche in the ’90s
by Liz Starbuck
He leans over to me to strap me in at the hips and instructs me to put my feet in the restraints. Lightly touching my thigh with a fingertip he says, “I want you to feel it here. Now spread your legs farther apart; can you feel it? I giggle nervously. “Yeh, uh-huh. Ouch.”
I welcome the pain.
No pain, no gain, ya know?
And soon I’m gonna be an Amazon.
Publisher/Editor, watch out.
“CUZ I JOINED A !#(*%&$@*! HEALTH CLUB!
Never thought I’d pay to sweat. Never thought I’d expend large quantities of energy to stay in the same place. Never thought I’d willingly submit to – augh! – akkkk! – spew! – VH1. That which doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger.
But what the hell, it was only $8 a month. For 92 years, payable in advance.
And what clinched it was the club’s location: I didn’t think I’d know anyone there (it’s not in Central Square). I don’t find it desirable to encounter my friends – people who are and should only be seen after sundown – in bright colored shorts, white cotton tube sox, pastel running shoes (I still call ’em sneakers), and drenched in sweat. I can’t imagine they’d feel any differently about me.
The the first time I go in there, who do I see but, 1) the only person I know from the Improper Bostonian – I admit it, I looked – Most Eligible Bachelor’s list (I want to run up to him and say, snidely, “So, didja find a girlfriend yet?”); 2) a friend from Toad whose roommate I went out with once five years ago ( – all right, this guy, I admit, looks way sexier in a tank top than I’d ever imagined; on the other hand, that’s all the more reason for me not to want him to see me here – ); and 3) my goddamned dentist. I haven’t had my teeth cleaned in almost two years!
But like trying to stay dry in a rainstorm, eventually you just give up. And then it’s fun!
I mean, honestly, strapping yourself into a long succession of huge pounding machinery and then exerting your muscles to their limits while gradually drenching yourself in sweat – it’s like an R-rated Metropolis.
But, of course, my mind wanders to the X-rated version. (I’m already plotting breaking in here in the middle of the night with a group of my sluttiest friends and a coupla video cameras.)
First you’re facing the mirror with your legs spread apart, watching your thigh muscles tense and relax, then you’re lying prone with your butt up in the air, then you’re on your back (on “The Boss”) raising and lowering your arms with nothing better to look at than your own breasts flexing and your nipples hardening under a damp t-shirt. There’s only one piece of equipment missing and there’s one attached to every scantily-clad muscle-bound man walking by or pounding the machinery next to you. I’m not usually partial to thick-necked, muscle-bound men, but under the circumstances…
And as the trainer takes me around, the more belts and straps I tighten around myself, the more restraints I put my arms or feet in, the more I feel my muscles flexing and straining, the more I — Oh, my god, it’s Journey on the TV screen!
Never mind.
