Three months ago I moved into what I thought was an amazing apartment. The rent is surprisingly low given the amount of square footage in here. If a place like this were rented out in downtown Boston, it would cost something like $2,400 per month. But whatever money I thought I was saving by moving just outside the city, I am losing twice as much in patience because of my downstairs neighbors.
P90X2 Plyocentrics is quite possibly the best lower body routine ever created for the homemade fitness-freak, such as me. I distinctly remember telling my fiancee, “I will move to any city and any apartment with you as long as I don’t have to sacrifice P90X.” I wasn’t just saying that just to please her, P90X means that much to me. As it happens, I had to sacrifice the lower body portion of it just last week.
God, or “Gay-Lord” as I call him, always tests us. This is one of those times where I have to keep telling myself not to get frustrated and to find alternatives to doing lower-body P90X routines. “Find a solution and pass Gay-Lord’s test,” I tell myself.
I hope calling my God “Gay-Lord” didn’t offend anyone. My God is Gay, and I have the right to interpret the sexuality of my fathomed higher power any way I please, just as the Jews, Christians, Muslims and Alien worshippers do. I like my God gay because when my wife goes to heaven he won’t hit on her. And I’m accepting of the fact that when I go to heaven I may need to bend over backwards for him – as if I don’t already – but I’m willing to take that chance rather than watch him rail my wife. Luckily I don’t shave south of the border so I don’t think he’d take a liking to me, and my wife and I could continue living in eternal gayness. But I digress.
I’ve been doing these lower body routines for a while now and last week, for the first time, I got a proverbial “FUCK YOU” from the people downstairs. At about minute 30 of 45 of the routine, I’m hopping up and down like a flamboyant, barbaric bunny and owning the shit out of P90X when my floor erupts with 10 loud bangs. Someone either had a fist made of steel or found a 2 by 4 and smacked it on the bottom of my floor multiple times. It was the heartless, impotent and bitter 60-year-old neighbors from below telling me to shut the fuck up in the most shocking and unfriendly manner possible.
Look, I understand it can be annoying to be underneath a shaking floor for 40 minutes at a time. Gay-Lord knows I’ve sat patiently in my living room waiting for my friends to finish fucking girls in my bed up above. But still, if you’re that disturbed by the noise, go to my front door and ask me politely to keep it down. I wasn’t even working out at a late hour – it was 8:00 p.m. when they “inquired” about the noise.
Fortunately the Plyo portion of P90X and P90X2 are the only routines I’ve had to give up. For the time being I have replaced those lower body exercises with basketball, soccer and jogging (shhhhh, once in a while I sneak in a few jumps in the kitchen).
I’m still upset with how it went down. I wish the old farts downstairs climbed the short staircase to my apartment and knocked on my door politely. Banging on the bottom of someone’s floor is something you can only do to your family members. My dad used to do it to me all the time. But that’s my dad – he earned the right to be a dipshit to me because I was a dipshit to him for 18 years.
These people think they can own me after three months? Nope. Ain’t gonna happen. The following is how I will seriously piss off my downstairs neighbors during the next year:
The Boston Jew is a humor blog. Though you may not find it funny, we thank you for wasting your time with us today.