After exploring the dainty side of life—a meal on proper dinner etiquette—in my last column, this week is all about the wacky and wonderful world of testosterone. That’s right kids: I got juiced at the SERF. Veni, vidi, vici. Or, you know, something like that.
First, let me tell you about my guns, or rather, their lack of existence. If you were a kid in the ’90s, you saw that episode of “SpongeBob Squarepants” where our yellow friend tries to be buff but can really only lift, like, two stuffed animals. Now subtract one of those stuffed animals, and you have some idea of where my upper-body strength stands. SpongeBob got himself some fake, inflatable arms. I, dear readers, was not so fortunate.
When I said I would go on an epic quest to Mordor, otherwise known as the weight room at the SERF, a friend suggested I go dressed as a dude. As there are few things in this world I love more than gender-bending wacky romantic comedies, I considered it. However, any intimidating qualities I possess as a 5-foot-3-inch female would immediately be invalidated if I transformed into a guy who looks more like Frodo than your average weight lifting bro. So I went forth on my journey, lady workout gear and all. That said, I did choose to wear my “Star Wars” T-shirt because I know how much guys just love “Star Wars!” I was totally going to blend, right?
Wrong. I might as well have worn a shirt that said “wimpy nerd” in big, bold letters. These dudes were either wearing sports logos, Wisconsin shirts or more sports logos. Whomp.
I also had a problem blending in because I was not a guy willing to explore other guys’ bodies. You see, I did not realize that showing up at the weight room at 5 p.m. on a Wednesday would be like going stag to the seventh grade “Under the Sea” dance. You just stand by the wall alone while the cool kids grope each other and drink strange concoctions out of Nalgenes.
So while these bros were feeling each others’ biceps or making others feel their sweet biceps, I stood there struggling with my baby bell weights while slowly coming to the realization that the puny lifting devices are just an excuse for people to stare at themselves in the mirror. There was the girl who casually held a 10-pound weight at her side while simultaneously ogling herself in the mirror to make sure her butt was still flat. There was also the breed of bros who would casually raise their arms straight over their heads to get a glimpse of their feh Adonis-esque physiques. There was a lot of posing, a lot of pursing of the lips and, dare I say it, quite a bit of smizing. Tyra would have definitely approved.
Once one of the machines was free, I tepidly approached it, like the weakest hyena to the picked-over antelope carcass. But so did a massive, sweat-drenched bro-beast. He played the gentleman and let me have it first but gave me a look that said, “Seriously?” After a few reps of a mighty impressive 30 pounds, I scampered out of not just the weight room but the SERF as a whole, promising myself I would never return to the grunt-filled land of testosterone. Next time I will stick with the janky elliptical at my apartment complex. At least it will not think I am a sissy.
