Ever since I started dating my now fiancée, I’ve been losing weight. Which was not all that hard to begin with: in my old life, I mostly fed off kebabs and ready-made dishes and hadn’t worked out in years, unless you counted walking to Starbucks as one. Which I only started doing after a period of spending entire days at home, to the point I realized I hadn’t physically spoken to anyone in a week. The perks of working from home.
Then, just like that, I became a vegetarian, started eating organic only, picked up running and ended up getting my first gym membership in half a decade. Naturally, I lost a bunch of weight, felt significantly more energetic — to the point that I started waking up in the morning: another major feat — and gradually looked more athletic. And by “athletic”, I mean you could see some muscle tone. Here and there. Right after a work out. If I showed you.
One thing I never worked on in the gym — and I’m fairly certain I’m not the only guy to state that fact — were the legs. Because a) they’re incredibly boring to work on: you have to lift the equivalent of an offroad truck a couple of hundred times for it to have any effect ; b) no one will notice, unless you live in California and spend your time in a bathing suit — which I don’t ; c) I have always had naturally fit legs, as in they looked toned even at my worst working-from-home-and-not-speaking-to-anyone days. Or so I think, which is all that matters.
That, however, started to change with my new regime. The mix of eating better and running got my legs to dry out like the Sahara desert with the effects of global warming. And not just my legs: my ass sort of started disappearing. I’ve never been Kim K. or anything — or ever tried to be Kim K.: let’s be clear about this — but now my jeans would literally fall down to my ankles. And they were the new ones, one size down from my 18-year old waist size (and I was not a fat kid, thank you very much).
It got to the point that my fiancée started making comments: “I think my ass is bigger than yours now”, “You know you’re supposed to have a butt, right?”, “Have you ever heard of squats?”. This abuse went on for a while. And it slowly got to me, as it always does: I’m a sensitive soul. So, this morning, as I was finishing off a fairly successful chest and triceps session (it hurt: that’s my criteria), I figured I could try the squat machine. Not actual squats, mind you: rather a machine where you lift weights with your shoulders.
Good thing it was at the back of the room.