...because I accidently gained like twenty pounds in the last 18 months, so I figured it was time do something about it.
I originally thought watching TV and drinking beer was a good fitness strategy, but apparently it isn't. Who'd have thought that?
I figured it couldn't hurt to join a gym, and as a bonus there might be imaginary hot babes (see photo below) working out there.
So I signed up with Planet Fitness, the nearby and quite reasonably-priced health club. They charge a mere $49 sign-up fee, then a measley $10 a month; and you can quit any time, which is quite important to a slack-ass like me.
I made an appointment for the orientation with a personal trainer. Unfortunately, there weren't any slutty whore vixens in stars and stripes hot pants working out, just your usual normal people. Which was pretty much what I expected.
But then I saw the guy who was supposed to be my fitness consultant, and I got a little worried:
Actually, Gary the Personal Trainer Guy looks nothing like that, but I thought it would be funny. Gary is a Brit (or an Australian, or a Kiwi, Canadian, Welshman, or one of the many other bastard Englishmen-types who've washed up on our shores to confuse us with all their continental talk of kilograms and Celsius degrees and national health care) and in spite of that he's a fairly cool guy. He patiently explained how an out-of-shape mushy guy like me can avoid debilitating injury by using the equipment properly. I paid attention.
My diligence must have paid off...here's a photo of me after just ONE session:
Wow! My wife wanted to know why I shaved my chest and beard; and why my man-nipples descended so low on my pecs. I told her that in order to be as awesomely ripped as I've become, something had to give.
So there went my man-ples.