You’re a body and image conscious ex-frat guy. You sucked at whatever sport you played in High School and then realized the guys in college who were playing your sport were three times your size and on top of that actually athletic. So now you “go to the gym,” but what you’re really doing is going with your ex-bros that graduated with you and also still hang around campus. You lift a bunch of weights in an entirely unmethodical, inadequate, and ill-conceived exercise regimen that revolves solely around the size of your biceps. Maybe you do five minutes of cardio first, or reserve Tuesday for “abs and back,” but in the end those free-weights are just too tempting. As are the Natty Light’s you’re going to chug when you get back to your apartment, coincidentally located right next to the fraternity house you haven’t quite let go of.
You haven’t quite gotten over how all the high school bullies would beat you up for being bad at athletic activities. Step foot in a gym and you’re going to get your ass handed to you once again, so might as well stay safely away. Actually, why not run away? Then you can burn off a few calories in the process and still maintain your slim figure to fit inside those skinny jeans.
You bike from location to location and misguidedly group that as a form of sustained exercise. You don’t have enough income to buy a car so you ride your bike to work your daily barista shift. And the coffee you drink actually is an appetite suppressant, so it’s not like you’re gaining any weight. In your mind it makes sense that cycling is a true form of exercise and a means to stay fit. In actuality it’s just your fast metabolism, and when that slows down to the same pace as where you’re actually heading, all those PBRs you’re having at bars will start to show in your gut.
You’re delusional about the intramural sport you play during the week. Maybe it’s kickball, or softball, or just pickup games of basketball. Sure, your team is undefeated on the season and you’re playing in the league championship tomorrow. But you’re playing in an intramural sports league, and Nike isn’t about to sign an endorsement deal with you. The same applies if you call yourself a “Professional Athlete.”
You’re really, really into smoking weed. Either you lived through the 60s or your parents did and, like father like son, you’re into it too. Because there’s nothing like traversing a nice, wooded path as you make your way up a hill and admiring nature along the way only to find a great vista to see all of the desolate environment (read: civilization and human progress) surrounding you. Why not espouse some random opinions with your companions when you get up there? After you smoke another bowl, obviously.
You’re unemployed, have lost all motivation in life, and gave up on exercise long ago too. But at least you’re openly admitting to it.