Fred Schuszler's epic beach body fail
Columnist Fred Schuszler in his earlier body building days. Wait. What? That’s not Fred? Are you sure? Well, it’s too late now. We’re about to go to press. Maybe people will think it really is Fred.
EDITOR’S NOTE: As we begin 2026, we thought it appropriate to take a moment and give another look to a couple of our favorite columns from 2025. We especially enjoyed this one from Fred Schuszler, recounting his days as a would-be body builder.
In bygone days when I was dating my wife, Jeanette, we decided to embark on an exercise regime together at Western Piedmont Community College. It was also the bygone — and alas, long forgotten — days when I was skinny.
I was determined to bulk up and become a muscular he-man for my beloved.
One of the first things that our nice instructor, Chuck Galyon, told us was. “If you feel faint, do NOT wander off, but come see me immediately.” I have never been very good at following directions and, anyway, the idea of feeling faint during this wimpy routine was laughable to me.
Easy, peasy, lemon-squeezy
The basic routine was that you went through a series of exercise machines while up-tempo music played over the loudspeaker. When the music softened and then stopped, time was up on that machine, and you were to move to the next one.
As the kids would say, “Easy, peasy, lemon-squeezy.” Actually, it seemed much too “easy and peasy” to me, who was seeking a more rigorous challenge.
I sometimes found myself daydreaming or trying to memorize Scripture or, the opposite, letting my eyes wander over (without Jeanette noticing) to sweaty young ladies in slinky exercise-wear blissfully navigating each machine with compelling grace and attractive determination.
I guess I must confess to being a dirty old man even before becoming old.
But it really was quite inspiring! (I mean, of course, the memorizing of Scripture; what did you think I meant?)
Let’s get physical
One day, when Jeanette was unable to join me until a little later, I decided to discard the daydreaming and wandering eye and pick up the pace: challenging myself on each machine. I went through a few stops just fine, then came to the squat press machine and thought, “Ah, my favorite. I’m going to attack this one!”
I got “ready and set” and increased the weight significantly. The music cranked up (I think it was Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical”) and I proceeded to give it my best up and down press (again, this is in the days long before my knees would protest in extreme rebellion to such torture — as they would today).
I challenged myself to go as fast as possible at the maximum weight I thought I could muster. By the time the music stopped to go to the next machine, I felt like I was going to throw-up.
Fearful of humiliating myself by projectile vomiting over the entire exercise room, I hurriedly headed for a restroom. It was difficult to find, but I eventually found a small restroom off the beaten path in a remote little corner.
Tweety-tweet on aisle 5
I headed straight for a stall and by the time I got there my nausea had turned to what felt like a rocket blastoff of extremely high blood pressure. It truly felt like my head was about to explode!
As I stood there waiting for whatever disaster was to come next, I begged forgiveness from merciful God for gazing at the ladies in the gym with lascivious appreciation and promised never to do it again if the Lord would deliver me from this horrifying situation. I could almost hear an audible, “Yeah, right!” from heaven.
I then realized if something awful did happen, I might not be found for days in that little secluded restroom. I imagined the custodian eventually checking the restroom and telling his supervisor, “It looked like something exploded in there!” I stumbled for the door.
The next thing I knew I was either having a psychedelic episode or trapped in a kaleidoscope of swirling colors. I was holding tight to the ceiling, trying to get a grasp that would keep me from plunging to the floor below
I had an uncanny perspective like in an Alfred Hitchcock film; strikingly similar to the raptor vantage point from high above in his “The Birds”. Speaking of birds, if I had been in a cartoon my head would’ve had little songsters circling with a tweety-tweet sound.
I then realized I was actually rolling around on the floor, having fainted going out the door of the restroom. As I regained consciousness, I sensed a liquid sensation on my forehead and then saw the bright red dripping from my brow onto the linoleum. I figured I hit my head on the door on the way out.
I was able to get up and steady myself against the wall — or was it the ceiling? — whatever. I made my way around the maze of corners to get back to the exercise room.
Dead man walking
After an initial shock, Instructor Galyon was appropriately concerned when I presented my coagulating crimson visage back in the exercise room. As I explained what happened, he kindly refrained from “tut-tutting” reproach for my ignoring his original prophetic instruction not to leave the room should one feel like they’ve overdone the routine.
As he was applying bandages and I was enjoying the attention of all the young ladies gathering around (they were most likely only interested because they were in the WPCC nursing program and were watching Mr. Galyon’s first aid technique) Jeanette arrived on the scene with her little daughter, soon to be my daughter, Anna.
Anna, who in those days long before entering her teen years actually liked me, expressed genuine concern (or maybe it was just her morbid fascination with “boo-boos”). Jeanette, although appropriately compassionate, did not refrain from concerned reproach for my macho pretensions in pushing my limits.
Soon I was fine and not noticeably more cuckoo than before the incident. I don’t think I continued the exercise course (if it was a class, I definitely flunked it) and my dream of an impressive, illusive beach body was forever discarded.
Disclaimer
Memo to Jeanette: When you so graciously proof this column as you usually do, ignore the reference to my interest in the other young ladies. That was just “artistic license.” I only had (and have) eyes for you.
Fred Schuszler is a columnist for The Paper. He may be reached at fredschuszler@gmail.com.
