Skip to main content

Gym Time

Its a disturbing, awakening thing to realize your own mortality. Id imagine the Reaper allows himself a snide grin, observing his quarry from the shadows as he realizes that his time is in fact finite. For the longest time our subject had allowed himself the luxury of delusion. He believed that his zealous devotion to his workout regimen, coupled with his stringent dedication to fasting daily, insulated him from any potential harm regarding illness. The delicious harmony of muscle straining against gravity warded off any thoughts of weakness and deterioration, and the proven fact that, through monastic adherence to his lifestyle, his body would burn extraneous fat with the ease of a furnace cooking dry leaves, combined to form a suit of
impenetrable, impregnable armor. What he didnt realize, however, was that, adept as he had become at guarding himself from the outside, all of his demons, wraiths and poltergeists had already compromised his fortress. They were built into his psyche, his genetics, his beloved body itself. A prediliction for heart disease and diabetes haunted both sides of his lineage, and it seemed that he would ultimately be powerless to stop them from destroying him from the inside out. A horrific tale no doubt, made all the more sinister by the truth; the subject of this little story is me.

Against the warnings and care of those that love me most, for the past few years Ive lived on little more than meat and bread. Burgers have always been the staple of my diet, and, when I can afford such extravagancy, Ive devoured steak, roasted chicken, lobster, shrimp, and fresh venison. In short, Im a born and bred carnivore. Along the way Ive been accosted for my tastes by those whove gotten to know me on this hectic journey masquerading as a lifestyle. My lovely girlfriend has remarked that she hasnt seen me eat a vegetable for the entire duration of our relationship. Not that Im any worse for wear. As my bodyweight has climbed steadily as planned, my shoulders, arms and chest have filled out while my waist has shrunken. My abs are crisp and defined, unmarred by the viscuous fat that seems to infect many other men my age. Yet Ive noticed that at times I feel sluggish, incredibly so. My joints creak and ache, and I feel out of breath after the slightest prolonged exertion. Could my culinary choices be the culprit? Tonight, for the first time in months, I ate salad, garnished with low fat vinegarette and sprinkled with pepper. I shudder as I write that, as Ive long considered such comparatively paltry dishes to be the purview of yuppies and hipsters. It was however, surprisingly delicious. While I will never be a vegetarian, let alone vegan like the majority of my hometown friends, I can say with full certainty that I will continue to enjoy salad, provided that it is immediately followed by a plethora of meat. We all have our vices.

After my athletic awakening at 17, I considered myself bulletproof. Encased in refined, battle ready muscle, I could face down the world and fear little, if anything. Currently, my metabolism allows me to inhale cakes, pastries and candies and remain unaffected, provided that I maintain my rigorous exercises program. Twice a day, 6 days a week  without fail, year-round. However, I fear for my health and its inborn capacity to succumb to ailments as I age. Longevity is the focus, not some inconsequential, abstract PR. Rather than focus on the examples of Jim Wendler, Louie Simmons, or Mark Bell, I instead extend my gratitude to Gene Mozee, Dan Laurie, Marvin Eder, and the immortal Jack LaLanne. To paraphrase the ancients, longevity is the goal, and health is king. Beset on both sides as I am by infirmities and a maelstrom of cardiac issues, I think Im being prodigously proactive by shifting my sights from arbitrary numbers to prosperity, vitality and the perpetual halting of physical degradation. Of course muscle and strength are welcome, but they are expected anyway. With this new, personally innovative but collectively stale and repititious approach, I can, similar to an investor, count on a steady, sturdy stream of continual advancement and evolution. No longer beholden and enslaved to a mechanical program defined by stringent mathematical parameters, I increase my workload when my body lets me know that the time has come. I eat when hungry, and engorge myself until my appetite had ceased sufficiently. In keeping with the example set out by the physical culturists of old, I am simply synchronizing my circadian rhythms with those of the natural worlds, and the results are astounding. May this endeavor prove to be gratuitious in rewards and beneifical in its outcome.

To be dedicated to fitness and holistic well being in todays world relegates you to the oxymoronic status of both pariah and paramore. You exercise passionately and fruitfully while the population sleeps in. You carefully monitor both your food and your culinary intake with an attention to detail that borders on militaristic while the world at large consumes apathetically and promiscuously. They scorn you as a buzzkill, a loner that chooses narcissism over companionship. Oh, but how the tune of society's voice alters when they behold your handywork. Bulging muscles, paper thin skin framing the lean contours of your body. A well-regulated internal factory, ensuring that you are youthful and sustained eternally in your prime, regardless of your age. They gaze upon you with rotund, drooping eyes that eerily mimic their ever present paunches, silently wishing futilely, with an unhealthy dollop of masochism, that they could muster a modicum of your willpower. But they wont, now, or ever. You know it, and they know it. And as you smirk cockily and contentedly at their resignation and outright hatred, you both know your rightful places on the totem pole. Regardless of rank, financial status, intelligence or even social standing, your aesthetics dominate them completely, as easily and absentmindedly as a parent would handle a child. Take pride in your work, it is indeed well deserved. But remember, this is an exclusive club, and rent is due daily, in sweat, blood, grit and grime. Get to work.

Popular posts from this blog

Rosary

Rosary The time has come for honesty/ I admit I suck at boxing these/ Fighters, they're lunging, robbing me/ Of a dream that kept me up and walking free/ When my life wasn't mine, I'd thrust and pocket these/ Experiences, my trust was not the thing/ Reciprocated but my love was stalking me/ All around the world, but the lottery/ Came and went and I was stuck with all the beat/ Tickets, so I burned them and the rush it halted weak-/ Minded busted fallen dreams/ I clutched my balls and screamed/ I'm not done, don't walk on me/ As the exposure seeped/ In my bones as sleep/ Came over me/ It became my rosary/ I was quoting reams/ Of poetry/ When on the lowest brink/ I chose to keep/ Fighting and swinging, yet closure seemed/ So far away, but I rode the steep/ Waves of my internal roving needs/ The crones and leech-/   -es began to notice me/ So I'd throw a weak/ Punch and found a skull/ In my hand to hold/ Powerful/ Strength that wasn't there before, I was astoun

A Drunkard's Lament

              Alcohol/ Is a battle fought/ With madness wrought/ From the sadness caught/ Between a man that calms/ His hands and thoughts/ With poison that wraps its claws/ Around his watch/ Makes time pass and stop/ Whenever he slams a shot/ I have forgot-/ -ten the chasms walked/ Barefoot and half distraught/ When I've drowned in bot-/ -tles of the brownest rot-/ -gut liquor, that the damned can flaunt/ Prancing, dropped/ By the rancid vom-/ -it that crams and falls/ From the mouth of all/ The manic lost/ Ones that choose to pad their traum-/ -as with Jack and vod-/ -ka, Schnapps and all-/ -the traps of karma/ Let's get plastered, crawl the/ Line, disasters wobbling/ Pants are starting/ To tear, we're panting, heart is/ Racing, death a tragic pardon/ From the crimes of a master wrong one/ The fortune amassed is startling/ Fan your pockets/ For the change that's always last for varmints/ Alas, unvarnished/ Regrets are magic, popping/ Up wherever you're lashed and

Curtailed Dreams: Fuck The Coronavirus

Curtailed Dreams: Fuck The Coronavirus When I was in the Navy, particularly my last 2 years, all I dreamed about was boxing when I got out. At sea in 2014, out on a workup, in the process of getting ready to deploy, I was on the night shift.  When on the water, you endure what's termed Port and Starboard Watch, which is essentially a novelty nautical name for twin 12 hour shifts. One ran from 0800-2000, while the other, obviously, went from 2000-0800.  Since I'm nocturnal by nature, I quickly volunteered for the latter, and got it. I remember it had amused me because I'd done everything in my power to get San Diego, CA as my first duty station, only to end up exiled to Norfolk, VA, yet I'd secured my spot on the night shift in such short order.  When my happiness was involved, I was ignored, but when my labor was needed, I was prioritized.  It was around 3 in the morning and I had just finished my workout. Obviously I dont remember the exact contents of it, but I'm