Blood, beer guts, and Spartan glory

300 men, 5,000 abs. Of course, the correct count should be somewhere between 1,200 and 2,000 abs, but we like to exaggerate, and I am very bad at math.

I caught the movie (300, of course — what rock have you been living under?) when it came out and when I walked out of the theater, the only thought in my mind was "everybody should be a Spartan." This idea eventually turned into "it’s completely unfair to expect other people to become something that I am not," and so it was decided towards the beginning of my summer vacation that if I wanted the Philippines to turn into Sparta, I would have to start with myself.

The decision was easy. Pulling myself off my Slacker Throne and tearing myself away from what my fellow columnist Carl Ramirez likes to call America’s Next Top Backup Dancer (The Search For The Next Pussycat Doll) turned out to be even more difficult than I thought it would be.

As much as I have always dreamed of losing weight and looking like all of my skinny friends, dragging my Evil Hips of Doom into a gym full of emaciated people was the last thing I wanted to do. I am the product of 19 years of sloth, sleep and junk food. I get tired walking from one end of Megamall to the other. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise to me if I looked like a whale next to all those health buffs; me, the girl who thought sarcasm was a sport and never ran a mile in her life. At least that’s what my overactive imagination was telling me.

Thankfully, female vanity won over the fear of looking like a complete moron on a treadmill. I could at least try to look like America’s Next Top Backup Dancer.

My mom took my younger brother and I to the gym three weeks ago. (Yes, I repeat, I am 19; she was there for moral support and shopping in Robinsons Galleria.) After a half hour of elliptical leg torture that left me looking like a mess, I almost wanted to give up. I didn’t. I haven’t. I’ve been returning religiously to my trainer three times a week for weight training and death by cardio machine, coming home sore in the afternoons. It’s a good kind of pain; even though it hurts to pull myself out of bed in the morning, the ache feels empowering.

I never realized how physically weak I was until I started going to the gym and pushing myself. Although I still want to lose weight and magically become skinny, I’m not delusional. I’m not going to turn into Kate Moss any time within the next six months. It’s enough for me that I know I’m doing something good for myself, and if I can walk from one building to another without breaking a sweat next school year, I think I’ll be happy.

For a while, I was telling people that I went to the gym because I wanted to be beautiful. But everybody already is. I don’t have to starve myself for that. I know it’s sap-tastic and cheesy, but it’s true: there’s something about each and every one of us that makes us great. Nice eyes, a sweet smile, lightning wit, comedic timing, a golden voice, an incredible laugh, a big heart — whatever it is, it makes us special. Vanity is fine, and it’s definitely okay to be figure-conscious (I’m vain almost to the point of depression sometimes, and I know so many people who are), but to let the surface take precedence and forget that there are good things about each of us that go far beyond that — that’s unforgivable.

So, I’m going back to the gym this afternoon for a beating; it makes me feel Spartan. Not necessarily sexy, but stronger, healthier. It’s not going to be easy, but I’m going to enjoy it. My brother suggests that you pass time on the treadmill by listening to the soundtrack of 300, plus the themes from Rocky and Mortal Kombat, and Eye of the Tiger, but my vote goes to the Blood Brothers. It is not advisable to yell "SPARTAAA!" while lifting weights.

Hopefully I will look like Nicole Scherzinger a year from now, but if I look like one of her backup dancers, I won’t mind, and if I still look like myself as I am today, I won’t mind at all.

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Gold’s Gym is love! Send Sparta Soundtracks (suggestions for treadmill music) to bewaretheashtraygirl@yahoo.com.