The Siege of My Parent's Basement

In case it wasn't clear in my previous posts, I am fortunate enough to have a decent spread of gym equipment at my disposal.  It's not much; in fact it's mostly just an old treadmill, an adjustable bench, a pull-up bar and some dumbbells buried in the back of my parent's basement.  Now, don't get me wrong, I love my crappy little weight room like a pro-life mother loves her child with Downs, but that insufferably cramped space has always been a difficult 60% blessing, 40% burden on the entire family.

Pull one machine out for pull-ups, push it back in for dips, spin, spin, spin, the bench for inclines, declines and butterflies, jerry-rig a mirror to a step stool, hang a stereo on the wall, stack the weights in the exact same neat and accessible order over and over again or we'll never get anything done and pray to God the two space heaters don't blow another fuse and BURN DOWN THIS WHOLE MOTHER FUCKING HOUSE!

(Again I would like to emphasize how much I genuinely adore this absolutely retarded little room.)

It has been this way for as long as I can remember, the general clutter of the basement making it impossible for anything else.  The space works best for solo workouts (clearly) but can also function if one decides to bring along a buddy so long as they take turns doing the same exercises at the same time.

However, encouraged by my recent proactive outlook on exercise, today my dear sister, Mary, chose to join me today in my daily fitness adventure.   Now, Mary is by no means a fat woman but she and I do not partake in complementary workout regimens and, as of late, her ass threatens to redefine the term 'mooning.'  (In two more cheese burgers it'll be called planeting and other, smaller asses will be pulled into orbit.)  Obviously I'm not going to discourage Mary's newfound healthy choices, but nor will I sit idly by while my own weight room experience deteriorates.  I looked around at the piles of random crap strewn about my basement: boxes and bags, bins and furniture, odds and ends that once sought a safe space for safe-keeping but instead found themselves ambivalently... wherever.  Then, something curious happened...

My mind started humming.  It was quiet at first, thinking only of the immediate proximity.  If I move the dumbbells over there and scootch the bench about a foot to the left, then there should be enough room to turn the treadmill around and then she could do her plyometrics in that corner over there... I was suddenly drawing schematics, blueprints for a more effective exercise room, but was alas defeated by the ever prevalent lack of space.  So my eyes wandered beyond the narrow gaze of my 10 ft radius. Well, if I move that couch against the wall and put those boxes under that table, then I can make that whole area over there a place for pilates and stretching and...  Before I knew it I'd mapped out the whole freakin' floor.


This thing I'm describing to you now, the big idea, the lots of plans, it's not new for me.  Even as a child I was always thinking up one starry-eyed, cockamamie scheme or another, from conception all the way right up to almost actually one-day maybe possibly doing it, but instead my thought process would inevitably end with a resounding Eh. Fuck it.  Not today though.  Today I actually (wait for it) got off my ass and did something.

I sifted, I sorted, I stacked, I vacuumed, demolishing dusty mountains and polishing new ones, I attacked that basement, beating the shit out of chaos until it was my orderly little bitch. You know how cleaning can sometimes be therapeutic?  Well, this was a steak dinner, followed by a fistful of Valium, followed by a Swedish massage, followed by a happy ending and a Cuban cigar.  Therapy ain't got shit on my dirty basement.

And, oh, the memories!  Did I mention the memories?  While tackling one particularly cluster-fucked bookshelf I found my uncle's photo albums, my dad's yearbooks, my mom's vinyl collection (Joan Jet, the Beatles, America, The Who...), a video cassette of that 90's claymaition Frosty the Snowman we used to watch every single Christmas, all the books I was assigned to read in high school and their corresponding Cliffnotes to boot.  I even found the copy of the copy of Harry Potter I got in 6th grade when I was 11 years old, the same age Harry was when he first went off to Hogwarts.  There was magic in the air.

It took about three hours to finish and when all was said and done I had crafted two fully functional exercise rooms like I only ever dreamed of in high school.  AND I worked out.  Boom.  A productive-ass Day 3 if I do say so myself.

Thanks for reading.  See you tomorrow.