On Fitness and Addiction. Why work up a sweat with dumbbells in your hands if your body is already perfect?

The "god of fitness" works out at the gym I go to.

Usually, when I start my workout, he's working out his biceps or chest. When I finish an hour later, he's still working out his biceps or chest.

Sometimes, though, it extends to other muscles as well. And every time, I'm amazed by the amount of work it does.

She picks up these unimaginably heavy weights and lifts them, and lifts them, and lifts them. She's like some kind of machine, I swear!

You can't help but watch this sight. And you can't help but admire this body. This man looks simply amazing! Toned, strong, athletic. And yes, his biceps are beyond praise, too.

But there's really no envy in my admiration. Well, I mean, it's not just envy.

A body of such perfection is, in principle, a great rarity. In ancient times, it would have been sculpted in marble.

However, my admiration and a touch of athletic envy (because I can't even come close to doing that) are occasionally mixed with a sense of bewilderment.

I can't stop asking myself, “What's the point of all this?”

Why work so hard with dumbbells in your hands if your body is already perfect?

At first, I thought he was a professional athlete. But then I ruled that out. After all, athletes usually don't train their entire bodies—just the parts that will help them in their specific sport.

Then I decided he must be a bodybuilder. But after giving it some thought, I ruled that out too. Because my nymph never once went to the mirror to admire the results of his titanic efforts (which is extremely rare for someone at the gym). He didn’t strike any characteristic poses or take photos of his beautiful physique from flattering angles.

And the conclusion is obvious: he trains for the sake of training itself. All this hard work—it’s solely for the sake of hard work.

There are just some people who, no matter what you give them—bread or anything else—will always crave challenges, hardships, or something unbearable, to the point of exhaustion.

They sweat it out in gyms, push themselves to the limit in marathons, and lift weights until their muscles ache. In the most extreme cases, they even swim across oceans and climb 8,000-meter peaks.

I read a story about an American drug addict who, at some point, managed to get off the needle. But drug addicts are a special kind of people. It’s no wonder that those who are clean don’t even drink beer. He started playing sports. And that was the most socially acceptable of all his addictions.

No one saw the bloody blisters he got from running. No one knew that he got up at three in the morning to go to the gym. No one knew that his back ached from the workouts.

Everyone saw only a perfectly sculpted body and admired it endlessly.

At some point, she realized she had simply found a different drug for herself and sought help. It turned out that such a disorder simply wasn't listed in the medical reference guide…

But it really is an addiction.

There are actually a lot of these fitness fanatics. And modern medicine is on their side. They get torn ligaments in their ankles and Achilles tendons repaired, heart valves replaced, and titanium knee joints implanted to replace their worn-out natural ones.

And they just keep going and going, running and running after another dose of endorphins and away from the voices in their heads.

Fitness has become a global industry. Being fit, muscular, and having a six-pack has become fashionable and sexy.

And it can't be said that this trend is harmful in principle.

But here, I think, a Polish proverb fits perfectly: Too much of anything is unhealthy.

Playing sports is great and healthy. With our sedentary lifestyle, it’s a must. But everything is good in moderation.

Yes, no psychiatrist would diagnose you with any disorder, and everyone around you will simply admire your persistence and determination.

Yes, you'll look absolutely great!

But if sports become an opiate, then you need to deal with the voices in your head that drive you to the stadium…

Or maybe I'm just jealous?