Pumping Iron

My muscles are torn and worn out. I could not lift my cup of coffee and my yosi with my aching joints. I felt like I was beaten to pulp in an initiation rite again. I have increased my dosage of Alaxan but I guess I am no Manny Pacquiao. I could almost feel my pummeled tissues crying: Back up! Back up! We are being attacked! Which is good sign because I wanted to in increase my muscle mass.

Taking the bar exam involves mental, spiritual, physical preparation, advised a bar reviewer. I took the latter seriously, so I enrolled myself in a gym.

The first time I stepped into the gym. I was intimidated. I felt really puny. I was surrounded with men pumping iron with their triceps, biceps, and calves bulging from their spandex. The gym reeked with sweats and testosterones. All I could hear were grunts and groans.

I searched for trainees like me: skinny and raw. Someone I could identify with but I was alone. In a garden of boulders and rock, I was the feather. Where are they? I searched. Where are the boys who are slim and flabby at the same time like me? Guys who really needed to pump those weights until they drop. Instead I was flanked with stevedores, cargadores and warriors training. I was tempted to shout and ask: Spartans, what is your profession to which they would reply, Ahoo! Ahoo!.

I paid my fee for the whole month of June so it was too late to back out. I asked for the Trainor in the toughest and most masculine voice I could muster. I was introduced to a buff man. He looked like he just stepped out from a Jockey catalog photo shoot. His body is lean and defined. He was like a walking statue.

He looked at me, as if to scrutinize my built whether there is potential. I half expect that he would say: The first rule of Fight club is, do not talk about Fight club. Instead he retorted:

Ang payat mo..

Even his voice is toned and muscular.

In I hindsight I should have said that I entered the wrong room, that actually I was heading to my ballet class, and then I would step out in pirouettes.

He told me to warm up and do stretching for 60 seconds on each body part. While stretching my skinny hand and legs and flat chest and back, I could almost see them flexing their biceps and rippling their washboard abs showing how frail I am while looking at me in malevolent glee.

My trainor devised a program suited for me. After two sets of what should have been 12 sets, my tongue could touch the floor in exhaustion. I felt dizzy, was gasping for air and I was dying for a smoke outside which I did and went straight home.

I read that physical exercise causes a release of endorphins into one's cerebral-spinal fluid, responsible for the emotion of happiness. It has been a week now but I did not feel the endorphin-euphoria effect. I stayed longer in bed than the usual and I could not put my self to study because of my sore body. I could not accomplish my daily reading quota, I feel cranky irritable and I flare up easily at the slightest provocation.