This is Short and Dumb
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I’m here each week, not to unveil the secret nutritional ingredient, disclose groundbreaking musclebuilding methodologies or unleash surefire techniques for doubling your squat and bench in two weeks. No, no, no! Those little dandies I keep to myself. My weekly presence, along with my signature stretch of incoherent disconnected words, is to remind you, to urge you, to inveigle, nudge, drag, threaten, extort or blackmail you to go to the gym, stand before the iron and do your dance.
Stop for a moment. Hear that faint hissing gurgle? That’s the wrenching of my entire muscular system under the severe stress of survival and restoration. I got a little too cute at the gym a couple of days ago. Rather than healthfully stimulate the oddly shaped protuberances haphazardly distributed across my body, which I generously call muscles, I insisted on blasting them like unspent fireworks left over from the Fourth. Today those tortured lumps emit sizzles, shrills and stings, not welcome sounds or sensations to this languishing old goat.
Big oops! I promised, I vowed, I swore up and down, for your benefit as well as my own, that I would clean up my act and never again present myself negatively in words or thoughts. The practice is part of an awesome ground-breaking scheme I cleverly call Positive Thinking to better myself and those around me, and thereby extend my lifespan and simultaneously become fascinating.
Whaddaya think? Never mind. I really don't care what you think.
Back to what’s at stake, ironheads: I am super-duper, near-squealing, capital S, Sore all over. Oddly, Laree doesn’t want to hear about these excruciating things. She doesn’t know what she’s missing. The guys at Gold’s Gym display childish annoyance when, during their max-rep benchpressing I describe in elaborate detail my mind-numbing torment and anguish. They lay there, counting their reps and watching their form and all that crap, the obnoxious mutts. The lady behind the counter at Frank’s Pharmacy laments, “Hey! I have my own problems. That’s a total of 12 prescriptions. We’re outta methadone and Camel filtertips in cartons. Anything else?”
Seeking, embracing and enduring extraordinary pain with neither a frown nor a nag reminds me of the abundance of sterling yet oft-overlooked qualities born of serious weight training. Who would expect humility and generosity to be twin byproducts of our harsh, iron-slamming love affair? Stately structure, yes, but soaring wisdom and deep insight at once? Gee! Nevertheless, there they are; goodness upon goodness piled sky-high as the steel flies.
Flash. I shall apply a splash of my overflowing wisdom to my forthcoming workout. Did I mention my recent tango with pain? Pain is for the birds. I'm twice the age of any 36-year-old, no matter who he is. In fact, I was lifting merrily for 25 years before he was born… make that a quarter of a century.
Muscles are established, exercises flow, routines abound, mindset is set in concrete (that doesn't make me a blockhead), behavior is noteworthy, instincts are sharp, talk is cheap. Sometimes just showing up at the gym and standing before a rack of dumbbells gives me a burn (heartburn) and a pump (more like an ache between my temples, just above the right eye).
Can I go home now? I'm tired and I wanna go to bed. Had a mean workout a few days ago and it went straight to my preposterous protuberances.
Next Week: Big Guns, Ready, Aim, Fire
Till then, let ’er rip… Godspeed… Dave Destiny
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