My lifelong definition of paradise is this: deep-sea diving and spelunking (Yes you don’t know it, Google it. I know, very simple, yeah? But I had to use the hard word. Refer to the second noun in my name); to para-sail and learn to practice Kundalini yoga (Google that too); to spend an entire month living my life as a goat in Oyugis, and eating fistfuls of Krakles Tangy Tomato Crisps straight from the packet as I binge-watch 6 Seasons of Vikings sitting in the house butt-ass-naked.
As you have noted, two things are missing: First, I am in no hurry to have a baby. Reason number one, I have this fear that when my first born child will finally talk, his/her first word won’t be the usual “mama” or “dada;” it’ll be the Wi-Fi password. Secondly, all of us in our twenties and thirties assume we are proud members of Humanity 10.0, the final, perfect version of mankind. We take sefies, do the duckface, and post beautiful pictures of ourselves with effed up quotes (Disclaimer: When you see a quote that starts with ‘Not every’, that is a hurt person trying to look strong). But when we have babies, we’ll meet Humanity 11.0, a smaller, sleeker model with more processing power. That’s why I’m in no hurry to start a family, because really I still compare it to releasing my own replacements. Our mothers and fathers thought they’d rule the world forever with cutting edge technology like cassette tapes and bell-bottom trousers. And I know the replacement has started. I was added to some sleek Nairobi kids WhatsApp Group. They toss around slang terms with no connection to any known language (People are at ‘bruh’ and I’m stuck at ‘dingo’ and ‘brathe’) and dank memes whose alleged humor would take a doctoral thesis to explain.
Second, and this is the story, going to a gym appears nowhere in my paradise. First, I am as fit as I should be, and I take the stairs. I have lived in a building of seven floors where I lived on the sixth, and there was no elevator. I do know that I have the physique of an Irish potato, but I am fine that way. If anything hurts in my body, my mind is specifically trained to know that the pain is either a reaction to sitting, writing, or looking at the computer while doing hand to gland interaction. Yesterday, I got injured on a chair! A chair!!! Adjusting myself to watch a movie and I twisted some part of my abdomen. It hurt like sin, but I was just fine with it because I have accepted my unattractive physique. I’ve long been a champion of laziness, but I have the self-awareness to be ashamed of myself when I lie on the couch and lick the glass after having a third round of Lyons Maid Frusion yoghurt (It tastes even more heavenly if you wipe the glass with your finger as you lick it repeatedly until the glass is dry clean).
But my major reason for not enrolling into a gym, is because I have no interest of walking into ass-hood which is a word I have just created now. Because most gym newbies I have experienced on my social media are complete, chunky, bubbly asses. Their interest, like some book readers, is so you can see they are doing it. Initially, my activities made me a standout prick; I usually still have my Christmas Decoration up until February, which is my camouflage for running a gambling website for rodent death matches. But then I met exhibit B, which is a far more developed prick than I am: gym newbies, full of bespoke trash, believing they are the fulcrum on which the world of fitness revolves.
It’s been mathematically proven that the more you post on social media about your gym activity, the more likely you are to be trash at it. That study was the best money IPSOS ever spent. Remember the kids who used to show up in the field with a full kit and sport shoes, they never kicked a ball. Balls hit their balls. The muscular guys who go for Mr Metal Competitions, men who have fought the war with the metals of torture in the gym, know so well that there is no fun in looking like a quarry rock. They regret that their butt muscles are too tight. They know it hurts to fart, and there is nothing to write home about it. They go about their business quietly. But gym newbies, they sit close to a mirror, they lift the weight looking at their imaginary bicep. And they pause, to pose at a mirror, take a photo and caption it “Grind”.
I like to use my pliable mind for something more constructive, like memorizing profanity-laced tirades I can show off in front of my in-laws when the dowry negotiations start going south, but I am yet to put that plan into action. I’m an idea man, not an actually-do-something man. So I feel very misused when I have to spend my time looking for more profane content on social media, to stumble on a sweaty picture of a 29 year old man who has given up humanity for Cyborg life. There are people with great achievements out here who don’t throw them everywhere. There are people who fart and birds fall off the sky. You haven’t seen it? Neither have I. Because they haven’t posted about it yet, however remarkable. There are people who wake up at 8 am on Saturday and take a shower, the greatest achievement, yet they do not post about it on Facebook. Gym newbies post photos, reeking of sweat and shame, and want us to clap about their self-inflicted struggle.
And the quotes that gym newbies have are so religious, it’s like being on a Dumb Bell Ministries pulpit. “Life has its ups and downs, they’re called squats…” is plain extremist and Taliban. Tell me that thing isn’t psychotic. Please. I use over-the-counter medicine to drive my fever into remission every time. That stuff is like Jesus in a bottle, except it doesn’t get all preachy when it performs miracles. Now it is hard to understand why after six days of doing squats, a man should act like he has turned water into wine, with such quotes. “Sweat is your fat crying,” is pure daftness considering perspiration is taught at class eight.
And then, worst of all, is that they have to shove it down your throat that their diet has changed. I have a friend, who used to be human. Nowadays he drinks blended lemon peels and grass because it is healthy and helps him get in touch with nature. His ‘gym partner’ advised him. The only way to become one with nature is to be eaten by a predator, but that’s not likely thanks to the foresight of our ancestors. Cavemen systematically wiped out saber-toothed tigers in mankind’s first preemptive strike. We owe our survival as a species to the fact that nobody in the Stone Age was an environmentalist. This friend has been trying to enroll me to their little terrorists movement (Read ‘Gym Newbies’), but my resolve is intact; I will not give up humanity, pizza, roast meat at Roadhouse and drinking water right from the dispenser tap because my ‘gym partner’ told me so. And, we don’t post photos of ourselves when we add more fat into our body, you only see the results. I do not for example show you the sorcery I mix every Saturday morning, of Cocoa, Blueband, Sugar and drops of yoghurt which I believe is the source of the energy I get through the weekend.
While It would take a 12-volume encyclopedia just to cover what women really mean when they say, “I’m fine”, it takes even more to debunk a gym newbie. Maybe I should just join one and stop this bile… However I am a staunch Anglican. Before I jump into anything, I ask myself what would Jesus do. He didn’t hit the gym, so I am seated on the right hand of this debate.
I needed to fill space… Nothing to write home about. Enjoy your week. Hit the gym, not us. If you take this seriously, you will get a fit (See what I did there, No? Well, Bye)