For Whom The Kettlebell Tolls

I received an Amazon.com gift card for Christmas. 

A couple weeks after the New Year, when I write thank you notes, I usually try to tell people how I’ve been enjoying the presents they gave me to ground my appreciation in something tangible.  So, instead of trying to convince my relatives that my gift card was accruing interest (a thing no gift card does), I decided to go on the hunt for an impulse buy.

I was sitting slumped in front of my computer, browsing through the bulk candy section when my stomach started itching.  I absent-mindedly scratched at it, salivating at the 10 pound bag of Twizzlers on my computer screen.  While scratching around my belt line, I felt something that was cause for alarm.  It was a pouch of flesh lolling droopily out over the drawstring of my sweatpants.  Surely this wasn’t…a muffin top.

WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?  I used to run every day in high school!  It seems like some people get better with time, but I’ve aged like an HP-laptop.  I once was full of energy and blazingly fast, but now it’s four years later and I can barely make it through a half a game of spider solitaire before I crash.

  

I spent the next few minutes frowning and kneading my extra stomach flaps disappointedly.

Suddenly imbued with the desire to no longer look like a baked good crammed indelicately into an undersized cupcake tray, I navigated away from the candy section and toward the free-weights.  After rooting around a bit, I stumbled upon something called a “kettlebell,” an object appearing to be the invention of someone so whacked out on cough syrup and amphetamines that they thought it would be a neat idea to add a handle to a cannonball.  The user-comments and product description lauded the kettlebell for its proficiency in “building a strong core and keeping tummies in check.” 

Tummy checking.  That’s what I needed.  I wished it sounded a little more masculine, but whatever.

I tried to narrow down the field of kettlebells by what I arbitrarily decided would be fair price.  The only thing wrong with this strategy was that the various models spanned a wide range of weights.  Also, most of them were measured in kilograms which meant that, because of Dwight “The Hipster” Eisenhower, I had no frame of reference for how much these things actually weighed.

Unsure of myself, I headed over to youtube and found a video of a guy in a blue headband talking about what size kettlebell would be appropriate for different people.  He was kneeling on the padded floor of a gym behind what seemed to be about forty kettlebells arranged from shortest to tallest in front of him.  The smallest one to his left looked like a handbag designed for an anemic mouse while the rightmost could have easily been the stunt double for an industrial water heater.  He went on to talk about how the lighter 90% of the weights were intended for women and children and stroke victims and how real men should use one of the three heaviest models.

I decided to go with the 18 kilogram kettlebell that he described as “for men who have really let themselves go.”  I thought this was a conservative middle-ground.

Two days later (because amazon is amazing), I drove home from work to find a package waiting at my doorstep.  After pulling into the garage and coming through the house, I opened the front door and leaned over to bring the package inside.  I grabbed the sides of the surprisingly small box and tried to lift.  It didn’t budge.  I tried again, but now using more of the “man strength” that I’d tricked myself in to believing that I possessed.  Again, nothing.

I took my jacket off and stepped out of the house to tackle this beast from the front.  I squatted low, wrapped my arms around the box firmly, and strained against the weight.  DID THE UPS GUY GLUE THE BOX TO THE PORCH?  I couldn’t get this stupid thing off the ground.  The best I could do was push against the side until it rolled onto a new face.  Apparently “18 kilograms” was the European equivalent of what we refer to as “a million fucking pounds.”

My ego bruised, I now had to resort to simple machines.  I went inside and looked for something I could use to make a ramp.  I needed something that wouldn’t buckle under the strain of this kettlebell that someone, for some reason, had designed to be the density of a dying sun. 

In the kitchen, my eyes settled on the wrought-iron stovetop griddle that I used to make grilled cheese sandwiches.  I grabbed it and walked back out to where my indignant new kettlebell waited to be broken like a wild mustang.

I set up the griddle in an angle between the porch and the stoop of my front door and rolled the kettlebell in a 5-point turn into place at the base of my impromptu ramp.  With great exertion, I was able to roll/scoot the box up the inclined plane into my house.

Dripping sweat and gasping for air, I was sprawled halfway in and halfway out of my house.  After a few minutes I gathered the remainder of my strength and climbed to my feet.  As I turned to close my front door, the UPS truck drove by as it was now leaving my neighborhood.  The tiny, Chinese woman driving the truck smiled and waved as she passed. 

I’m returning this damn kettlebell.