An Open Letter of Apology and Week in Review-January 7th

I’d like to take this time to apologize.

In an earlier post I mentioned that half of what religious people do is apologize (the other half get redeemed), so I’d like to take this moment to do so.

Apparently some bodybuilders have been reading my blog and have been taking exception to some of my characterizations of people who lift weights.  Apparently they believe I’ve been insinuating that weightlifters are cognitively disadvantaged.

My intent has not been to insinuate any such thing.  I’ve been meaning to clearly state it.

Weightlifting is a fool’s errand.

Can you imagine how weightlifting first started?

Fool 1: “Hey, let’s start lifting things in a small confined room with poor ventilation.  In fact, lets lift them in different ways: overhead, to the chest, lying down.  And hey, why don’t you stand over me while I lift and yell things at me like, “Push it!  You can do it!”

Fool 2: “Sounds good.  Let’s do this!  Oh, and let’s only shower every three days, too!”

Obviously cognitive dissonance at work.  With muscles.

Now, one of you will undoubtedly point out (I’m betting it’ll be Chris Ciupke) that people have been working out since the beginning of time, with ancient Greece being the model example.

I would counterpoint that the ancient Greeks did physical workouts that involved sport and challenge, like wrestling.  Since body-contact of that sort has since been frowned upon in public and relegated to darkened movie theaters, the trunks of hatch-backs, and bedrooms in the current age, modern workouts consist of activities with much less sport.

It is a fools errand to be sure.

But even more foolish is just sitting around doing nothing.  So while weightlifters are idiots, they’re the intellectual “bees knees” compared to the sloths who sit around all day drinking fat-filled lattes, garnishing their drinks with finger nail clippings bitten while reading People magazine.

Week in review:

Cardio Workouts-3

Lifting Workouts-2

Weight at beginning of the Week-233

Weight at end of the Week-231

Saying “No” With the Grace of a Hippo-Friday, January 6th

Sorry for the late post today.

Yesterday: lifting day with Critter.  This time I didn’t sleep through…but he almost did.

Back and shoulders.  And before you ask the obvious, no, the goal isn’t to get shoulders so big that it looks like I’m constantly shrugging.

There are people who do, by the way.  I’ve seen them at the gym.  Their shoulders are so huge and developed that you can’t tell where their traps end and their chins begin.  It looks like they’re constantly in a state of indecision, shrugging at every imaginable option in front of them.  It would be terrible to try and help them if I was a store owner and they were a patron.

“Can I help you?”

(Stands there normally)

“You’re not sure what to get, or not sure how I can help?”

(Noticing you) “Oh, no thanks”

“Uhm, was that a question?  Because you said it while shrugging…”

(Irritated) “I wasn’t shrugging!”

“Uhm, are you confused about whether or not you were shrugging, because you just said ‘I wasn’t shrugging’ while shrugging…”

A total “Who’s on First” moment.  I don’t want that.  I have enough confusion in my life.

But that is not the goal of working my back and shoulders.  The goal is to get rid of back pain, which I am sure is associated with the way I hold my shoulders and hunch over a keyboard to bring you these thoughtful reflections.  You’re welcome.

But I have to say Critter had me doing all sorts of weird lifts yesterday.  After the normal warm-ups (I’m getting so acquainted with Supermans that Lois Lane is jealous), we hit up the smell area to begin the dirty work.  There was the normal shoulder press and the lat pull-downs, also known as the “bread and butter” of shoulder/back work (that’s unconfirmed).

But then he told me to grab 5lb weights for the next exercise.  I was offended, of course.  But that offense quickly turned to fright as I noticed him also picking up the 5lb weights.  If he could only do the next lifting with 5lbs, I obviously needed to go lower, and I began a frantic search for the .5lb weights.

They don’t make those.

Sure, they make 90lb dumbbells for the asshats that have to curl with a spotter, but for us who simply want to tone and not pull a tendon they can’t put a few bb’s in plastic case and call it a weight.

Critter assured me, though, that I’d be fine with 5lbs.  And so we did “scarecrows,” these awful arm swings that keep your arms at a right angle while your forearms swing up and down to the count of 20.  It sounds easy.  It is easy.  Until swing 37.  And then it becomes clear to you that this exercise was developed by someone who didn’t have arms, or didn’t need them.

It hurt.  Still does.

And then he had me lay face down on a bench and do “Y lifts” and “T lifts” with 3lb weights.  Not only did I look like a douche who couldn’t use the bench correctly, I was lifting the smallest weights they had.

But that’s ok; I have no shame.  I used to have shame until I started doing this.

Then we did bar curls, terrible reps of 10 for 3 sets each.  The first set would start at my waist and come up to my chest.  The second set started at my shoulders and came down to my chest.  The third set started at my waist and went all the way up to my shoulders.

At least, it was supposed to.

As I was hitting rep 24 I said, “Ok, I’m done.”

Critter:”Nope, you have 6 more to go.”

But my arms agreed with my mouth at that point and I said, “Nope.  I’m done.”  And passed the bar over to him.

No means no, Critter.

I know my body.  And as it turns out, I had to use those arms later on that day for, say, carrying a box or flipping Critter off, so enough was definitely enough with that.

I did it with all the grace of a hippo, but that’s how it goes sometimes.

I’m pretty used to saying “no,” though.

“Can we sing “Spirit in the Sky” in church?”

No.

“Can we do boxing for a youth event?”

No.

“Can you come and open up the church at 7:30am on a Saturday?”

No.

Rhonda is also used to it, although she doesn’t like it.  In fact, today she invited me to run with her outside. My answer?

No.

It’s not that I don’t like running outside, or even running with her.  It just that I don’t like running outside at all, even though I know I’ll have to eventually.

The problem with not running outside is that it’s wimpy.  The problem with running outside is that you eventually have to run back.

See, I’m very good in a straight line.  I’m not so good at gauging when I should turn that straight line around.  I also don’t like the fact that the earth isn’t totally flat.  I’d rather be in charge of my own incline/decline, thank you.

Oh, and if you point out the fact that I live in Chicago, one of the flattest cities in the nation, I’ll point out the fact that I don’t really give a rats ass about your opinion on the matter, so don’t bring it up again.

After the arm curls with Critter, we did these things called “negatives.”  It’s where you take the bar and slowly lower it from shoulder to waist, three times in a row.  I was actually pretty good at it, while Critter kind of struggled. I’d like to think my success was due to my awesome “negative” muscles, but I think it was probably because I didn’t finish my set of 30 while Critter did.

Whatever the reason, it was my workout highlight.  Just about anytime I can beat Critter in something lifting-related is.

By then it was 8am, and time for me to get on with the days other activities, which would include staving off periodic muscle spasms with a hammer fist to my shoulders throughout the day.

Now, I have to go run.  Probably on a treadmill.  And probably at 0 incline.  And can you make me feel bad about it?

No.

Missed Connection-Thursday, January 5th

Wednesday was busy.

One of the great challenges to this whole endeavor is finding time to be active in between meetings and other social appointments.  Last night I had a date for “Beer and Babies,” where a couple of us guys go over to a friend’s house and eat and have a beer…and watch the kids.

It sounds like a case for Child Protective Services, but I assure you it’s not.  Mostly because the kids keep you so active you can only get through half a beer before it gets so warm you have to pitch it.  Children and their wily ways…

This meant, though, that I had to get to the gym and run between 6-7pm.  On the face that doesn’t sound difficult.  But in reality, getting out of the office, heading up the stairs to the apartment, getting gym clothes together, resisting the urge to lay down on the couch and stuff my face with stale Christmas cookies, and then getting over to the gym has been known to take me an hour in and of itself.

It’s not because I don’t want to work out.  It’s because I really don’t want to work out.

Life lesson for the day: it’s easy to put physical health on the back burner in an already full life.  This is one of the reasons Critter and I lift at 6am.  It’s the only time “free” on my schedule (technically “sleep” has marked off the time between 6am-7am, but I’ve had to have the “it’s not you, it’s me” talk with sleep lately).

When I get to the gym its absolutely packed.  So packed, in fact, that all the treadmills were full of tiny butts and swinging ponytails.  And to the guy with the ponytail: Really?

As the stair-climber is really no longer an option until it gets its act together (my thighs shake when I look at it), I was forced to get on the elliptical again.  This time I thought I’d be ambitious and do level 15 (out of 20).  It was a bad idea.  But the guy next to me was on level 4 (no joke) so I made sure to have an audible commentary to myself as I punched it in.

“Let’s see…last time I did 12 and that was waaaaay too easy.  This time I think I’ll do…15!”  And then I attempted to look at the dude with an ominous face.  He, on the other hand, was looking at People magazine.

I put the machine on the “rolling” level (which, as far as I can tell, just means that the bar graph in front of my face rolls…I couldn’t tell a difference in resistance) and began the long descent into endorphin ecstasy.

As I was chatting with a friend earlier in the day, I was alerted to the fact that people at the gym “cruise” each other a lot.  This apparently means that they check each other out, doing pass after pass.  In fact, I think I witnessed such a cruising earlier in the week, and recorded it in “The Gym is Not for Flirting” post.

But my buddy went on to tell me (I refuse to reveal their name because, really, this whole phenomenon should be embarrassing to even have knowledge of) that when they don’t make contact verbally…or otherwise?…that they post it on Craigslist under the personals column, sub-category: loser.  I mean, sub-category: missed connection.

So, being of a researching mind when it comes to health (even relationship health), I checked out the “missed connections” section of Craigslist to see what this was all about.  After all, with the frequency I’ve been going to the gym, and the rate that people love to hit on slightly overweight, balding, married men, I was sure to have at least five, maybe more, “missed connections.”

I think I did have one.  But I wasn’t sure.

I couldn’t tell because, well, those posts are stupid.  Here is a sample from a real entry:

w4m- (toilet store)  *No joke. The place of the missed connection was identified as the “toilet store.”  I had no idea those were real!*

“Do you want me? One kiss. Could we stop then? What I feel when I’m close to you is unlike anything I have ever felt before, and you haven’t even touched me. Everything is heightened, and I can’t think clearly, except for desire. I wish it would just stop. One kiss”

Is that a “missed connection” or the lyrics to a Wham! ballad?!  C’mon…

Another one:

w4m-(State and Lake Crossing the Street)

” I was with someone else and so were you, but we made eye contact and I knew that I wanted to run into you again. I was the blonde with the ponytail, you had a hat on. This website is super cheesy but thought I’d give it a chance! Hope you felt the same”

Well, a little more description in that one.  But let’s break it down for a second.  Do you know how many people I may eye contact with a day?  True, it’s usually to intimidate them so that they won’t mug me, but I literally see a hundred people I don’t know every day and look them in the eye.  Well, the nose.  I hate eyes.  Can’t tell that story yet…

Oh, and she identifies him as “wearing a hat.”  It’s frickin’ winter in Chicago, lady!  Everybody and their mother’s got a hat, hood, or helmet on!  C’mon…

But the lady is right about one thing: the website is cheesy.  Actually, I’d identify it as banal, useless, and about as informative as Ikea directions.

This got me to thinking, though, as I was ellipticizing away.  What would a “missed connection” for me look like had someone been writing on Wednesday night?

w4m-(gym)

“Hey, been seeing you there a lot lately.  Morning, evening, random hours.  It looks like you’re doing everything you can just to fit it in your day.  You were looking really hot today with your miss-matched socks, mesh shorts, and t-shirt that said “Hi! I’m Mr. Right” on it.  That shirt is funny…in an ironic way.

What color was that shirt?  I couldn’t tell, unless “sweat” is a color.  You seemed to be pumping away at the elliptical at a pretty quick clip.  That’s awesome for level 15!  And what was that sound blaring from your ipod?  I think it was Belinda Carlisle’s “Heaven is a Place on Earth.”  If so, she’s right, now that I’ve found you.

I sometimes see you working out with a younger, taller, stronger guy.  He has tattoos.  And hair.  I know this is a long shot, but could I have his number?  I was the woman walking with the shoes on.  I hope you see this!”

Yup, that’s about right.

I gotta tell ya, if your emotional well-being is wrapped up in how many people look at you and want to jump your bones, come sit on my couch and we’ll talk about it.  Because, really, if that’s the case, the only missed connection is you with yourself.*

*Yes, cheesy line.  But true.  I am not responsible for your keyboard if you just puked on it.

There’s an App for That?-Wednesday, January 4th

Lifting day with Critter yesterday.

When I arrived at 6:20am there were considerably more people there than when we had hit the gym the week before.  I guess folks are all trying not to break their New Year’s resolutions before day 3.  They will.  Oh, they will.

Critter said he gives it to mid-February before the majority of them drop out, like fumigated flies or Nickelback from relevancy.  I’m more optimistic.  Late February is where my money lies.  We’ll see.

It could also be argued such prognosticating on our part is the pot calling the kettle black.  We’ll see.

My Freshman year of High School I made a New Year’s resolution to begin spelling my name with a slanted “T” that looked like the first two strokes of a “Z.”  The resolution was the result of pure laziness and vanity.  A cursive “T” took forever to pen, with its curly loops. The adapted “T” I was working on made it much easier to sign my name quickly, which I was certain I would have to do many hundreds of times in a row at my future celebrity record signing.

In celebrity signing, too many strokes of the pen is the enemy; speed is the goal.  After all, I couldn’t leave my fans waiting!  Sure they’ve enjoyed listening to my pop single play over and over again through the speakers at the corner Media Play* while they waited in line for me to pen over my face on an artistically stylish album cover that I designed myself in a drunken stupor, but they also had to buy my second new single-tape before leaving the store. So can we sign a bit faster, please?

I spent hours in Mrs. Ogle’s Honors English class (don’t be jealous) writing my name in straight lines down my notebook.  TJB, I’d scribble.  After I joined a fraternity I’d add the “…” behind the B.  To explain the meaning behind it I’d have to kill you.  Would it be worth it?

That was a useless resolution, but sure enough, I kept it…and still sign my name that way.  This, I am hoping, will be a more fruitful resolution.  Although, technically, “The Year of Health” is not a New Year’s resolution because I started it a few days before the New Year.  Hence if I fail it will just be another attempt at a better life foiled by mediocrity, illness, or the siren call of Starbucks (if I were to guess). I’ve wasted many a good hour at Starbucks that could have been an hour spent at the gym.

As I hinted above, only time will tell.

Oh, and Rhonda has some opinions on it.  But if you want to know those you’ll have to ask her about that. I’m trying to keep this blog positive.

But today was a lifting day with Critter and, despite the larger crowd (four small guys who could bench me instead of only two last week, oh, and an Ewok…I’ll explain the Ewok in another post), we again had the run of the gym.  We began on the elliptical, my trusty friend who, every time I step off it, I feel like I’m doing a “walk of shame.”  Elliptical, you sordid mistress!

We quickly moved on to those lovely warm-ups I’m so fond of.

Supermans? Yes please.  60?  Sure, why not.  And leg-ups.  Oh, and these things called “ab-twists” that make you look like you’re trying to start the lifting machine like a lawn mower, but the machine has run out of gas.

And then I laid down on that bench of misery again for the bench press.  Faithful readers will remember that 90 was the poundage I pressed before.  Chris, always the sunshine of my early Chicago morning, suggested I go with 100 this time.  I suggested he go to hell and loaded it up to 90 pounds.

It’s a good thing I know my body.  Lifting this time around was even harder than before!  I have a theory on why…

Imagine a flock of sheep (which also can be identified as a mob or a herd…thanks to Trent Kissinger for that tidbit of useless trivia that surely pushed something important out of my head).  In the center are the awesome sheep.  They’re awesome because they’re smart enough to stay in the center.

Now imagine a pack of wolves wanting to eat the sheep.  Which sheep do they eat first?  The dumb ones standing on the outside.  Why?  Because the smart ones on the inside have doused the dumb ones in soy sauce, that’s why.

So now all the dumb sheep are gone, eaten.  The awesome sheep are all that are left…they are now the perimeter of the circle, which has grown much smaller. But the wolves are still hungry.  And with the idiot sheep gone, the wolves start attacking the awesome sheep and having them for dinner, further depleting the strength of the flock.

Get the metaphor?  Sheep=muscles.  Wolves=weights.  Last time my muscles were stronger because, while last time they were full of dumb-ass fibers, there were still more of them and many were expendable.  Now I’m sacrificing strong, good muscles to the weight-lifting gods…which is why 90 pounds felt like I was lifting Carnie Wilson to the Wilson Phillips blaring from my ipod (don’t ever let anyone step all over you!).

If I have to explain my metaphors to you every time, these posts are going to get really long…

By the way, the above story also makes a good moral tale for your young children, where you can ponder together whether they’re the idiot sheep or the awesome sheep of the world.  If you’re unsure just ask their PE teacher.  They’ll tell you.

Critter, however, had no noticeable trouble with his awesome lifting that morning.  And while I struggled, he was very encouraging to me, even once saying, “Breathe and don’t be a pansy.”  That’s motivating in a Dr. Cox sort of way.  You’re aces, Critter.  Aces.

While he may have whooped me on the bench press, I did best him in the fly machine (75lbs for 3 sets of 15 reps).  When I was at the gym last Thursday lifting without Critter, which is not half as enjoyable, I did spot a man curling the 90lb weights.  His veins looked like they could move Hershey Syrup they were so huge.  I was not jealous as I can still buy shirts at any local store and not have to take out the sleeves, but my plaque-clogged arteries were jealous.  They can barely move the paint-thinner blood coursing through my body.

We also did incline presses, tricep-extends, tricep pull-downs, and tricep reverse curls.  I am in love with my triceps.  They never complain, they always do what they’re told.  They’re the “me” of the muscle world: small but obedient.

And then we get to the last part of the work out.  Critter pointed me toward a machine and said, “Lift that while I go get something.”  I can tell when I’m being given a meaningless, time-stalling task. But being the tricep of that relationship, I did what I was told.

He came back with his iphone.

“I have an app for the last workout.  What do you want to do, 5, 7, or 10 minutes?”

“Of what?”

“Ab work!”

If I’m the tricep of this relationship, he’s the idiot sheep.  Really? Let’s do 10 minutes.  Please.  I mean, I can’t touch my elbows together because my arms feel like jello, and I’m pretty sure that the 70 year old man lifting behind us on the bench press was laughing out loud and pointing while I was lifting.  But I’d like to fail again this morning, so, please, 10 minutes.  Line it up.

Actually, I said, “Do we have to?”

“Fine, 5 minutes,” he replied.

It was at this moment that the workout became me looking at an iphone screen the size of a tea biscuit trying to figure out what the figure on the screen was doing while lying on a mat at an awkward angle.  I didn’t have my glasses of course.  That, plus the sweat dripping from the vast tundra that is my forehead made it difficult to see. (And, no, I’m not getting contacts.  If you mention the contacts thing again I swear I’ll throw soy sauce on you.)

Because I couldn’t see, Critter did the interpreting.

“Regular crunch.”  For a count of a gut wrenching 40.  “Lumbar crunch” which made me think of futons.

Leg lifts.  Reverse crunch.  Arms-out crunch.  Captain Crunch.  I was done.

By the last exercise I was lying there sure that I would never get up from that green mat.  They’d have to scoop me up and my abs, which now felt terribly heavy, would be the last to lift off the floor.

I didn’t know there was an app for Hell; but there is.  If there is a Hell it certainly involves those exercises.  And an iphone, probably.  With a cracked screen that is “your fault” so they won’t fix it.

I’d had enough.  With all my idiot muscles exorcised and my awesome muscles bruised and beaten, I limped wearily from the “smell area” to the “smellier area,” aka the locker room.

“I’m going to go use the elliptical,” Critter informed me cheerily.

“I’m going to go crawl in the shower, ” I said resolutely.  And, as per last week, my arms refused to reach above my shoulders, so my neck did most of the movement required to remove the dirt and shame from my face.

C’est la vie.  In the game of life, though, advantage goes to Brown today.  Now, if only they’d have an app that would work out for me…

*Hey, this was the early 90’s and it’s my fantasy…choose your own media store and let he who hasn’t dreamed of one day signing autographs in a mid-priced media chain throw the first stone!

Gyms are Not for Flirting-January 3rd

I saw it yesterday: the gym flirt.

Having spent most of the day lounging around in moose pajama pants (thanks Mama B!), stocking cap, and a robe, I decided at 4:30pm that it might be time for me to go to the gym.  If there’s one thing this blog is making me do it is get off my ass and go to the gym.  After all, I wouldn’t have much to write about if I didn’t.  And I don’t think I can, in good conscience, write about walking up and down the back steps of my apartment with a load of laundry while trying to prevent my robe from flying open, in what I can only guess were 90 mph winds tormenting Chicago yesterday, and still call this blog “The Year of Health.”

I figure I have to do something “health” related if I’m going to write it up for the public to see.  And so, at 4:30pm, after six episodes of West Wing Season 6 (thanks Santa!), grits, coffee, and two loads of laundry done and folded, I decided to get to the gym.

I was not going to be ambitious.  We’re starting out small, remember.  I’m a tortoise, not a hare.  Ask anyone.  I’ve always resembled the clunkier turtle to the agile rabbit.  So 30 minutes on the wimpy but effective elliptical was all I was planning on doing.

Oh, btw, discovery number one of the day: “elliptical” has two “l’s”.  I want to thank all 300 of you who have been reading this for alerting me to that fact.  It’s not enough that I’m sharing very personal information with you, but apparently I also get to show you I spell like a 3rd grader.

And I used to teach reading.  Sigh.  Just another confirmation that, should I ever think too highly of myself, there are at least 1342 reasons not too.

Ready for reason number 1232?

On arriving at the gym I made another discovery: the check-in sensor talks to you.  It’s not that I hadn’t noticed this before; I had.  Upon swiping your card you hear a “Have a good workout!” in a deceptively high yet humanoid voice, to which I have, without fail, replied, “I’ll try!” followed by a huge smile toward the desk attendant.

Only this time I finally noticed that it was the computer talking, not the person behind the desk.  This explains the bewildered looks I received each time I replied.

Curse technology.  And curse the desk attendant for being mean and not telling me that I was talking to a program.

So, now that I’ll never be replying to that again, nor chatting up the desk attendants, I’ll move to the story.

Having changed and gone to the second floor (where the elliptical machines aren’t placed in front of the street-side windows so I don’t have to suffer the odd looks from the people outside), I chose the elliptical nearest the dreaded stair-climber, punched in my weight, time, and level (a modest 12 out of 20) and began to ellipticize.

At minute 5:34 a woman hops on the stair-climber, which is positioned at a right angle to my elliptical.

At minute 5:55 a man comes running over to the woman as if she was about to leave the country and he had to verify her passport.  He was holding out in front of him a water bottle, but holding it at an alarming angle.  I’ve seen a similar scenario with this style of fast sprinting/object holding.  Only it was in a hospital.  The sprinter was a nurse.  The object was a cardboard box with a heart on ice inside, ready for transplant.

You see where I’m going.

This is the conversation, as best as I can remember it:

Him: “Hey (hopping guard-rail blocking off running track from exercise area in one leap making you feel as if you’re a failure at life because you cannot do that without looking like a doofus), you left this at your Zumba class station.”

Her: (Flipping ponytail to look at him with a perfect smile) “Oh!  Thanks!  You saved my life.  I need my hydration!” (Laughs)

Him: “I know.  Water is sooo good for you, and tastes good!”

…I kid you not, he said water “tastes good.”  You can’t make this buffoonery up.

Her: “Yes!”

Him: “Well, you’re welcome.” (Flashes perfect smile and begins to walk around the guard rail)

Let’s pause.  I should describe him for you, just in case you’re wondering at this point what he looks like.

He was probably chiseled out of limestone at one time in his life, touched by a wizard, and given the gift of breath.  His biceps were the size of two liter bottles, the 1980’s versions with the very round tops and bottoms.  The ham steaks glued to his chest could be called pectoral muscles if they weren’t large enough to be a person of their own.  I imagine he could probably hold a quarter between them and, with the flick of a muscle that he can move independently but that I don’t even possess, could shoot that quarter right into my waiting hand should I want to buy a Hostess Cupcake from the vending machine.

His legs looked like they were constantly flexing.  He had hair (that’s all I’ll say about that).  The only flaw was that his eyebrows were continually furrowed, but I blame the difficulty that conversation probably posed for him on that expression.  I don’t think it was permanent.

And her?  She was, of course, Trixie-rific.  Tight blonde ponytail.  Tight leggings.  Short tank-top that accentuated the fact that nowhere did she bounce where she wasn’t supposed to.  Her shoes were pink, her sox were white, and she was doing a setting of the stair-climber that I dare not even attempt.

It’s like they were created in the same factory and shipped on the same date, and now were reuniting so that pretty people can continue on this planet.  I felt like an imposter, watching Fate work her magic for attractive people.  Fate usually just led me to step in dog crap and track it in the house.  That’s what Fate does to people who blog about elliptical machines.

As he started to walk away, she called back at him and said, “So what are you going to do now?”

Him: “Uhm, probably lift a bit.  I have to work my shoulders.  My training coach says that they’re my most underdeveloped area.  Some lat work next, at that cage over there.”  He pointed to one of the “cages” that held tire-sized weights.

Her: (Laughing) “You look in pretty great shape to me.”

Him: “Yeah, I do alright.  In between school and work, I don’t get to lift as much as I’d like.”

It was at this point that I realized that conversation was not hard for him.  He was in school, worked, and found time to go to the gym.  I started to peddle faster, seeing that he was put on this earth to be inspiring, not to be mocked.

Her: “I’ve almost got my nursing degree.”  At which point I peddled even harder.  Gosh, these beautiful people were inspiring, with their wondrously toned arms.  And here I was “sweating to the oldies.”

Him: “Well, I hope to see you again soon.”

Her:  “I’m sure you will.  Thanks for the water.” (Takes a sip) “Just what I needed!”

I looked down at my clock and it was now just minute 12:12.  “Just what I needed” ?!  Please, lady.  You haven’t been on this machine 10 minutes, don’t pretend your dying of thirst.  It’s not impressive (it was).

Although I had to suffer with their superior bone/muscle structure for another 17 minutes, I’ll spare you the details.  He would pass her by every so often and wave.  She would wave back and then return to her routine of breathing through her nose and out her mouth.  All the while I was melting like a snowman in Jamaica, just trying not to appear as if a) I was listening in on their conversations/interactions and b) going into cardiac arrest.

When I stepped off the machine at minute 30, I was ready to be done.  My legs were tense and my morale, while happy that I had worked out, told my stomach “See what you could have been had you done this 10 years ago?!”

Such a scolding is difficult to take, unless you remind yourself that it’s not about getting ripped, it’s about being healthy.  At which point I remembered that I had a loving partner, good relationships, AND I was working out regularly.  That I had been through school, gotten three degrees, AND am a good godfather, uncle, husband, and friend.  Suddenly ham steak pecs weren’t as necessary (unless they’re on the menu, and then I’ll gladly take them on behalf of humanity).

Oh, I should also mention that one time when the guy passed, he made a motion as if he was going to smack her butt.  It was at that moment that I realized that while he may be good looking, while he may have huge biceps, he wasn’t classy.  And she laughed at it.  And I realized she wasn’t classy either.

Please, lady, go for the nice guy.  And don’t flirt at the gym.  Vomit is hard to wet vac.

Stay classy, gym rats.

Exercise Soul-Monday, January 2nd

I don’t work out on Sundays.  It’s a spiritual discipline, believe it or not.  After church, I’ve worked out enough for the day.

I think if God rested on the 7th day from creating stinkbugs, aardvarks, and mineral salt deposits, the least I can do is take a break from torturing myself at the gym.  At least, that’s the excuse I’m going with.

It’s good to rest, though.  This, too, is part of living a healthy life.  I know that many of you reading this blog are now snickering to yourself because you know me well enough to know that “time-off” is not a phrase found in my usual vocabulary, but you all can keep your snickers to yourself (and bite me) because this whole endeavor is all about a new start.  And with new starts comes the chance for redemption.

Plus, I’m a religious person, and redemption is half of what we do!  The other half  is apologize.  (I’m sorry for saying “bite me.”)

By the way, if you’re not a religious person, you might want to consider investigating the noumenal side of existence (I’ll pause while you go grab your lexicon).  And if you want a non-religous reason to do so, just consider that at least two bloggers name “practice spirituality” as part of the “12 Things Happy People Do Differently.”*  And those bloggers are named Marc and Angel, so you know you can trust them.  Anyone that replaces the conventional “k” with the unconventional “c” in their name can be trusted.  They’re hip enough to be in the know.

And I am certain that these two bloggers know what they’re talking about because I have been forwarded, tagged, or forced to see this very link in no less than 92 of the Facebook status updates in my news feed over the past three weeks.  The people have spoken: Marc and Angel are an authority.  And if 2000 years of Christian tradition (not to mention 1500 years of Islamic or thousands more of Buddhist tradition) aren’t enough for you to consider looking at what a religious life might bring, then Marc and Angel might just be your tipping point.

We should all congratulate ourselves on the internet-assembled philosophies we’ve cultivated.

I think one of the reasons that people have chosen to disengage from religious life has to do with the campfire/religious/protest songs of the 70’s.  It is well documented (“well” is used loosely here) that Peter, Paul, and Mary had more drugs in their bloodstream than Alaska has salmon, but apparently this made them well suited to use the kinds of metaphors that make the skeleton of campfire/religious/protest song.  And despite the desire of children from that generation to continually sing these songs, I have to tell you that if I “had a hammer” I’d probably put it back where I found it.  I’m no good with tools or tool-based metaphors.

But I digress.

We really must rest.  Especially if you legitimately ran on Saturday, like I did.  On Saturday I told the eliptical to “kiss it,” totally ignored the stair-climber (we’re not on speaking terms), and sauntered up to the treadmill.  I sauntered up to it because I find that I have to act toward a treadmill much like I’d act toward someone in a bar after having too many drinks.  A treadmill behaves like that bar encounter you regret: they keep wanting to move to the next level before you’re ready, and by the end of your time you begin to feel self-conscious being seen there because everyone in the place has realized you’ve made a bad decision.

I step cautiously onto the tread.  I’ve had treadmills start on me before I’ve been ready before.  One time the treadmill began moving before I could untangle my earphones, and I slid right off the back of it.  I decided that the beast had embarrassed me enough for one day, and moved on to the idiot cousin of all exercise machines: the deep-seated exercise bike.  Any machine you can use while knitting (I’ve actually seen this) is not a workout machine.  If knitting was conducive to “workingout” there’d be yarn for sale at the front desk.

After choosing my speed (6.5 in treadmill speed) and time (30 minutes or bust), I turn on the tv and plug in my headphones.

Awesome; the tv is fuzzy.

And not only is it fuzzy, but it’s the kind of fuzzy that shakes every time my foot lands on the tread.  And Judge Judy is much less entertaining when you can only understand every other word of her insults, so I abandon the tv for my ipod and begin the journey to nowhere.

Some people have different running music on their ipod that they intentionally upload before they hit the gym.  I do not.  That would require me actually spending time on itunes and figuring out how to manage my files.  I’d much rather do with my ipod what I do with my chili: dump it all in and see what I get.

Plus, there’s something satisfying about running to Snoop one minute and Hall and Oates the next.  It’s a veritable “tour through the genres” as I’m literally touring nowhere while people stop outside the window the treadmill faces to tap on the glass, much like one might do with a gerbil in the wheel.  I can easily block those jerks out with a healthy audio diet that includes Gin and Juice and Man Eater back to back.  It’s a satisfying melange of music as Sufjan opens for Belinda Carlisle and Tool sings us out.

My favorite artist to run to is Lady Gaga.  Her music has a certain je ne sais quoi (weird techno beat) that is conducive to my pace.  It’s like she wrote Poker Face utilizing a metronome that had a “slightly overweight, bearded but balding, 31 year old” setting.  I swear she’ll be up for sainthood one day, because her music does miracles for my exercising soul.

But while Gaga is the patron saint of my workout, my favorite song to run to is Walk of Life by Dire Straits.  In fact, its so amazing that I included a link, on the off-chance that you’re reading this while running.  You can thank me later.

That song, for some reason, is the best mix of synth/bass beat for the gyrating stumps my doctor has graciously labelled “legs” that I have found.  I’ve been known to play it during a difficult run two or three times in a row.  And it never gets old, at least not for me.  The people running on either side of me probably tire of me audibly singing “Whoohoo” along lead singer Mark Knopfler during the instrumental breaks, but frankly, I’m tired of them not being able to control their bodily functions while we’re running in an already hot gym.  So I say we’re even.

One of the problems with cardio work, as I’ve mentioned before, is that I get bored.  One of the ways that I tackle this boredom on the treadmill is by playing with the incline/decline and level/pace.  I usually start out at 6.5 with a 0 incline, but then after 10 minutes move to 7.0 at an incline of 2.  If I’m ambitious (and want to show off because an especially annoying person is next to me), I may crank it up to level 8.0.  At that speed I imagine it looks as if the treadmill has taken over the workout as elbows and knees go flying, providing some comical relief for the old woman watching me through the glass window eating her fries.  I don’t mind, though.  That scene is probably the highlight of her day, as she goes home to those fries and a solid two hour block of Soaps.  I’ve done my part for humanity in that instance.

As I power down the treadmill, huffing and puffing in such a way that makes the front desk attendant open the box for the defibrillator and begin charging it (it sounds like the Millennium Falcon warming up), I look at my sweat-drenched dashboard.  3.4 miles in 30 minutes.  Not bad for a guy who just wants, as Kevin James has so rightly said, to “brush his teeth without his stomach jiggling.”

So Saturday I ran, legitimately.  Sunday I rested and strengthened my faith-life, legitimately.  Exercise the body, exercise the soul.  Not a bad way to start off the week.

Oh, and I ate a piece of cheesecake.  But we’ll deal with diet next week.  Baby steps, folks.  Baby steps.

*As a side note, I don’t think “happiness” is the point of life.  If I did I would have already purchased a dog because I am certain that a dog would make me very happy…at least for a little while.  And then when it stopped making me happy, I’d have to get rid of it, and thus deal with the subsequent guilt that comes with deciding that the fuzzball that once brought you joy just ate your Italian leather shoes and you have to drive it out to Kankakee to live on a farm.  And then you have to realize that your shoes didn’t really bring you happiness either, which makes you despair further because, if Italian leather can’t bring happiness, what in this world can?  Hence why “happiness” is a crappy goal.  Don’t go for happiness in life…you’ll never be present.