by Christian Walters
I joined a gym. I get motivated during the Summer Olympics, but I guess that's common. You see all the taut, athletic bodies, and you think "I wonder how many sit-ups I have to do to seduce that person." For this Olympics, it's Natalie Coughlin. I figure I'm one Avogadro's Number of sit-ups away from Natalie saying "Oh man, do I need a night of no-strings-attached debauching with that guy, or maybe a weekend. I hope he's sensitive, like a writer."
But it's hard to break in a new gym. You get all these personal trainer people in your face who say things like "try that with some weights" or "put the Baconator down." Like I have time to eat breakfast later. And these trainers talk like having big muscles gives you a degree in human physiology and nutrition. (They don't, but they do get you scholarships, especially if you go to an SEC school.) But I've come to realize that the wisdom of the personal trainer isn't always from higher education. No, much of it is an oral tradition. Like Beowulf.
I've been six or seven times now, Natalie hasn't called (although I had someone hang up when I answered -- coulda been her), and I'm already getting the same song from my trainer. Since I'm currently immobile anyway, let's set some things straight.
You Can't Fight Big Glucosamine
Ah, glucosamine. A lube job for your innards. Cures what ails ya, if what ails ya is osteoarthritis or hip dysplasia. (Are there other supplements that are used for both humans and dogs?) Active ingredients: desperation, fear of surgery.
I hear about glucosamine a lot, because I have a bad knee. My only souvenir from an epic beach volleyball game when I was in college.
Re-enactment
At the time, spiking the ball into my trash-talking friend Steve's crotch was worth it. Still is, really. Better to limp around as a stud than to skip freely as a wuss. But I am paying the price now in not being able to do a lot of lunges and squats in a gym, damn it all. And it's good that gymkata went out of style, despite the fortune I spent on lessons in the '80s. Of course, I tell every new trainer this, and every new trainer thinks I'm lying until I am face down on the mat, sobbing like an orphan over the sounds of crinkly noises in my knee.
"Let's get you started on glucosamine. That will re-grow the cartilage around your knee, and we'll work on strengthening the muscles. Also, ice it down and take a lot of ibuprofen." Uh huh. And Crunch Berries are a part of a nutritious breakfast that features two bran muffins, a bowl of cantaloupe, and a party ball of orange juice.
Funny thing about glucosamine, though: it doesn't work. According to the most recent studies, the differences between glucosamine and a placebo are statistically insignificant. But don't trust me; read it directly from the study:
At baseline, both groups were similar in demographic and clinical variables. Overall, WOMAC pain did not differ (mean difference [glucosamine sulfate minus placebo], –1.54 [95% CI, –5.43 to 2.36]), nor did WOMAC function (mean difference, –2.01 [CI, –5.38 to 1.36]). Joint space narrowing also did not differ after 24 months (mean difference, –0.029 [CI, –0.122 to 0.064]). Only 1 of the sensitivity analyses, based on extreme assumptions regarding missing assessments due to total hip replacement, provided results consistent with a glucosamine effect.
I totally can decode every word of that, assuming none of you have follow-up questions. It says that taking glucosamine is as effective as praying to Zeus (less effective, if you pray from a reclined position with your leg elevated and sporting an ice pack).
So why am I not blowing the lid off this? Why don't I run to my trainer, shout SEMPER SIC TYRANNUS and throw a handful of glucosamine pills in his face?
The reasons are legion, but chief among them is that I'm not an idiot. Ever sit with a devout Christian during the news, and see a report about a tornado that killed 13 people and knocked out everyone else's TV reception right before The Ghost Whisperer? Did you notice their faces when you say "good thing there's no God, or that would be a truly dick move on his part"? They get a little testy, don't they? Now imagine if that devout Christian were an ex-Special Forces guy who is holding an 18-pound medicine ball while you're doing pushups. I think you get my drift. (And it might not be just glucosamine. I'm looking at you, fish oil -- I'll be passively attacking you later...)
So I'll stick with my current plan: tell him I'm taking glucosamine, but take something that actually works. I'm thinking about a mix of chocolate coffee beans and uppers. It's actually legal here in Georgia, if you're straddling the Tennessee state line. Or have Natalie rub her glutes on my shins until the pain goes away.
So remember, folks. Don't let someone tell you what to do just because that person can fold you into a manila envelope and slide you under an aerobics mat during a Pilates marathon. All he really wants is your lunch money, or more specifically, $40/hr.
If you want to keep your defiance quiet, your secret is safe with me. From a distance, a glucosamine pill looks a lot like a peanut M&M.
Christian Walters lives, loves, and drives in the Atlanta area. He's a technical writer by training, and a Rock Band Adonis by nature. He has honed his reviewing skills on bad movies, which are as rare as pollen grains these days. He has always been a fan of science, and has studied it as much as he could by flinging a Frisbee around campus while getting a liberal arts degree.
