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I often hear comments at the health club that leave me speechless.

Consider my visit last night.

I'm plodding along on the treadmill, deeply engrossed in a reality show rerun. The entire plot seems to consist of beautiful women crying about some other beautiful person who is just so mean. Why executives call this "reality" is beyond me.

I've never looked that beautiful in real life, and if I whined like that around my house, someone would roll their eyes and ask if that dirty shirt is finally clean.

Now that would be a reality show.

Back to the point. I'm sticking to my commitment to lose weight by upping my weekly exercise. So, on a weeknight, instead of relaxing on the couch, I find myself inside a massive building filled with exercise equipment, trying hard to pretend I'm enjoying the process, when I hear a loud voice booming behind me.

Startled, I pull off my headphones, wondering if perhaps someone is waiting for my treadmill. Maybe I'll have to be polite and get off, give the next guy a turn. Maybe, just maybe, I won't have to suffer to the end of this exercise session.

Then I hear the voice again and, alas, it's not filled with complaints about my hogging the exercise equipment.

"Fantastic workout!" a wiry guy exclaims as he jumps off the stationary bike drenched in sweat. "I feel great."

How can he feel great? He's covered in sticky sweat, he stinks like the pig farm near my childhood home, and his hair is dripping onto the carpet. If this is great, he should live in Mississippi. People there can manage that kind of sweat without moving off the couch.

I look at the timer on my treadmill. Half an hour, and I still don't feel great. My feet hurt in my new running shoes (like they're really going to be used for running). My heartbeat bangs in my ears, and all I can think about is how long I have left before I can go home.

In fact, the only reason I'm here at all is to earn some extra calories so I can have that sugar-free, fat-free, fake chocolate mousse waiting at home in the freezer.

I watch the man use a towel to wipe away the sweat. He's actually smiling. I don't think I've combined smiling with exercise since I was 8 years old. I vaguely remember smiling while propelling myself down the sidewalk on metal skates. Even then, the smiling only lasted until I got to my neighbor's sidewalk, where I tripped over some landscaping gravel and ripped up my knee.

Smiling is definitely not something I equate with exercise.

I wonder if this man's brain is wired differently than mine. Maybe some people are just geared to like exercise. Maybe I'm destined to hate it forever. But then I remember the exercise guru who was asked if he liked exercise.

"No," he told the reporter. "If I had my choice between getting out of a warm bed next to my wife or exercise, I would never voluntarily choose to exercise. But I know I have to, so I do it every day."

If a man who has made his living encouraging other people to exercise can still not like the process, maybe there's hope for me.

I trudge along, logging another quarter mile when I overhear two older men talking. "The problem with women my age," explains one, "is that they're all so, well, old. That's why I work out at the club. I hear it's a great place to meet younger women."

The other man laughs and agrees.

I sneak a glance while holding the bars. I don't want to fall off while gaping, and I'm certainly not known for my good balance.

I manage to catch a glimpse without falling off the moving belt. I see stubble on the chin, a paunchy belly covered by a tank top, and more hair on the body than the top of the head.

I sigh and put my headphones back on. Maybe this is why executives call the beautiful people on TV "reality." I don't think anyone wants to watch a show about sweaty old men who like to hang out in health clubs or, for that matter, one about a pudgy mom who only exercises so she can eat a diet dessert.

I look at the digital numbers. One more mile to go. I increase the speed. Just a few more minutes and I'm finished for the night. I don't even care who gets voted on or off.

This diet and exercise plan is my own reality show, and I'm sticking to it.