Pretty on the Outside

Yeah, I work out. Thanks for noticing. And I realized something else last weekend, as I sloshed my way through another set of Romanian Deadlifts. I don't do this shit for my heart. The damn thing's been beating just fine on its own without my help, and despite the occasional Triple Whopper and Vodka belt, so who am I to interfere? Nor do I give a flying handshake about my circulation, pulse rate, or "core." I bust my ass in the gym so I get that extra look from Shirley in Accouting. So that the Kenette will give me her patented "nice," when she runs her hand along my chest. So that the college chicks in the apartment next door will stick their heads out the window to watch me watering my lawn sans shirt [as will the mailman, who will simply sulk away, knowing he's but half the man].

Simply put: I workout so that I look better for the ladies. And if the girl across the gym from me, who's been pounding away at the "Butt Blaster" for over fifteen minutes, is here out of concern for the aging process and not thinking about how her aerobicized ass is going to turn every third guy at the Rattlesnake into drooling fiends, then I'll eat my towel.