Weights, Workouts and Personality

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We think, function and behave according to our personalities. It follows, then, we train according to our personality. My training, for example, is nasty, aggressive and uninspiring, whereas Laree’s is lovable, thoughtful and stimulating. Her training, were it portrayed on canvas, would be a bouquet of wildflowers in a clay jar, a sweeping valley of verdant fields and grazing antelope; mine, coils of rusty barbed wire, molten lava spewing from a volcanic crevice.

That is to say the long-standing Website Champion -- Miss Blog, the Queen of the Forum, 2006 -- controls each well-chosen exercise with perfect form and perfect pace to exactly 85-percent-maximum exertion, whereupon she turns precisely to continue her mission, her challenge, her set by set, rep by rep deed. Upon completion, she smiles, adjusts her waistband and departs. I, on the other hand, grasp the iron like it was a haunted, living thing that owed me its life; I strangle it and pummel it and drag it about the gym floor till only one of us is standing. Another workout concluded. I crawl out the door.

How do you perceive your training? What do your workouts look like? Are you Mr. Rogers, Attila the Hun, Queen of the Hop, The Pillsbury Doughboy?

The action of the lifter on the gym floor fairly accurately reflects who he or she is on the inside. Of course it’s only fair to allow the new trainee to adapt to his surroundings, the gym an intimidating setting to even the boldest new participant. He walks tentatively in circles as he scans his surroundings looking for something slightly familiar. Conscious of his awkward presence he grasps a pair of innocuous dumbbells and hefts them about, as if testing their solidness and usability. A serious nod as he returns them to their resting place is a sure sign he agrees with the balance, shape and firmness of the metal objects, fine tools of the trade. Yes, indeedy!

Careful not to tiptoe another step, our yet-unproven hero approaches a cable machine and pokes the short handle that hangs temptingly. Hmmm. Like a stalker, his eyes wander broadly and innocently while scrutinizing a well-toned member apply might and skill to the tricky apparatus. Ahha, action is worth a thousand words. He sidles up to the gismo, grabs the handle as observed and tugs. Oooff... nothing happens, a wrenched wrist, maybe. He adjusts the weight stack... oooff. Nada. He adjusts it one more time, only three plates remaining.

He struggles, a contorted body confronting stark reality and embarrassment. Oh, boy, what have I gotten myself into?
 
He has an image of himself -- pigeon-toed, knock-kneed, slope-shouldered and pot-bellied with a feeble grin emitting tiny gurgles -- as he stands in the middle of the gym floor a mile from the locker room. "Hey buddy; can ya give me a spot," sez Joe Poluka, a pile of raw muscle sitting at a bench with a bar quivering under a load of countless plates. Our man in freshly pressed pleated shorts weeps.

The true personality, the inner-self, emerges as the beginner emerges from the weight-laden gym floor week after week. He and Joe compare notes. Persistence is a very good thing.

One’s personality sort of happens according to life’s experiences. We arrive one day, a bundle of genes amid immediate chaos, and the development begins: Mom, Dad, warm, cold, affection, rejection, food, comfort and distress; school, friends, enemies, religion, politics, the opposite sex, money and the lack thereof. Hello, I’m me.

Personality can also be modified by intentional intervention: the company one keeps, the environment chosen, the experiences undertaken, the subject matter studied and so forth. The gym is a great place for sought-after personality improvement. I’ve seen weaklings stooped with shyness stand tall after long, hard bouts with the iron. Unbearable, loud-mouth jerks are frequently silenced by the strain of the steel, its voice more convincing than theirs. And the no-nonsense wit of the weights takes the cockiness from the coolest of dudes. No game, weightlifting levels the playing field.

Those who endure win the prize, gain the honor, become more, learn and grow. Those who don’t, don’t.

I often wonder what goes on in any one day of the active fitness personality who charges into the gym, hops on a Lifecycle, adjusts her headphones and spreads the newspaper before her. The movement of her mouth indicates she’s lip-syncing the song or reading the funnies word by word, and the occasional glance at the TV suggests she has the news or sports or sitcom down to a science. I am then reminded, as someone breaks my reverie by asking if I’m using the leg press or just sitting there, that my own training is a mysterious science. She darts out the exit; I remain, making up for lost time.

Aware there’s no room for distraction on the gym floor -- a dedicated time and space for purpose, determination, concentration and muscle engagement only – I struggle not to observe the gal in sky-blue short-shorts who leans provocatively against the horizontal leg press, a personality-driven exercise. I’ve never before been drawn to the unit and I’m not about to be sidetracked by its apparent powers at this stage of my development. Horizontal leg presses cannot compare with squats, I assure myself. Focus, Draper. Blue Shorts knocks out three tantalizing sets of 15 reps, as registered by my masterful unconscious mind, which can count in its sleep. She’s last seen talking with the boys near the bent-over row, another personality-driven exercise. Ah, girls, who can understand them?

Boys will be boys. One flexes his lats (nothing happens) and swaggers along the length of mirrors before the dumbbell racks, his eyes diverted by his accompanying image. I’m cool! The other flexes his triceps, a popular lat-flexing alternative (nothing happens), and does a set of adorable curls with a light weight so as not to be distracted by the pain of strain at this gratifying moment. If the boys last -- persevere -- the weights will produce lats and triceps, willpower and focus and personalities, and they will understand girls slightly, which is a lot, experts say.

There are those personality types who don’t want big muscles (I know, most of you are shaking your heads in disbelief, like, where do these people come from, what are they thinking, don’t they have any imagination, get a clue, hellooo, anybody home?). They’re frisky and enjoy the brief, spirited interlude the gym presents. Or they’re worried, overweight and suddenly health conscious, doctor’s orders. Some, the lucky ones, are trim and intend to stay that way with a little of this (treadmill) and a little of that (stretching).

A number of folks dare not do too much cuz they don’t want to become muscle-bound and lumpy. More than a few are lazy or uninformed and enough is enough before enough is much of anything. I know both males and females who think they’ll break if they apply force to their fragile and mere flesh-and-bone bodies. They stretch and bend and walk and talk. Gyms are dangerous places for human beings. Rest homes and hospitals are safer.

You and I, bombers with wings and tales to spin, engulf the gym with our entire beings. We enter the warehouse of iron, benches and gizmos, and unload our energy, desire and might. We impart life to the metal we touch and draw our share before we’re done. There’s a wonderful balance in the giving and taking away, and the more generous we are, the more we acquire. It’s a personality thing, I think, and that’s yet to be disproved.

Who is going to challenge this apparent fact of life: the boys, the alluring, the lazy, the worried, the content, the fearful, the lumpy or the fortuitous? I don’t think so.

Aren’t you glad (feeble word, make that thrilled) you lift weights with purpose and enthusiasm? Yeah, yeah... it comes in waves, but it’s as regular as the ocean. And while we’re on the subject, did you ever see an ocean that didn’t have endless miles of personality? I didn’t think so.

Same thing goes for the sky. Push the throttle forward, take it up and look around. Endless miles, yours and mine...

God’s might and height... DD

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