Why Fitness?


“Check out these gains!”

“What supplements you take?”

“DO YOU EVEN LIFT, BRO!”

These are things I have never, ever, heard at the gym.*

Yes, weightlifting has a negative image. Many think, thanks in late let to our popular culture, that guys who life are nothing more than meat-headed, steroid-abusing, unintelligent, overly macho, testosterone-soaked (like this is a bad thing?) jocks.

Whatever.

In truth, most of us are just guys trying to stay healthy in an environment filled with sedentary jobs, endless entertainment, bad food, and aimlessness of purpose.

If you follow my social media, you may have noticed that I’ve been posting about fitness more often lately, though I’m not giving advice.

What gives?

I’ll tell you what gives: It all goes to the “Renaissance Man” (or “Woman,” if you get offended by such gendered language) aspect of life: 

Never stick yourself in one box. Don’t look at having many different sides as a bad thing.

In life, be a generalist.

The mind and the body and the spirit are all connected. You cannot ignore any of these without negatively affecting the others.

If you are mentally or spiritually ill, it will have outward manifestations.

If you are physically ill, it will have inner manifestations.

The entirety of a human being is linked. This is why, though people mock Biblical statements about the body being a temple that should not be defiled by sin, including things like gluttony and lust, those boring old guys were on to something.

Let me give a little background here which may explain why I find fitness so important, despite the fact that I check pretty much all of the “Nerd” boxes.

You see, I am a former fatty.

I know, I know. Some of you might object to this term as well. I don’t care. It was only by being harsh with myself I was able to cut through the self-deception that convinced me to be comfortable in this state.

Until I was in my late teens, I never got serious about my health. Continue reading “Why Fitness?”

The Road

The oxygen machine continues to hum along in 7/4 time, clink-clanking on the last two beats. 

“Did you give a full syringe of morphine, or…?”

My wife shakes her head, not needing to hear the rest of my question thanks to the weird spousal telepathy that develops over time. 

Not the full syringe. Not because my mother-in-law isn’t in pain, but because we hate seeing how the full dosage of pain meds make her look. Slack-jawed, eyes half-open, face skeletal and wan. 

In other words, like she’s already dead. 

We are selfish. We can tell she is in pain because the tears that squeeze from her broken body out of those yellowing eyes can mean nothing else. But she is too weak to talk, too weak to lift her head or her hand, too weak to even swallow a pill. 

We will relent, of course, and give her the full dosage. And more, on the nurse’s recommendation. Because anything is better than seeing her in this pain, even a drugged-out stupor. 

The worst part about cancer is that it lingers. It stays well-after the party is over. Everything’s already been ruined, my mother-in-law’s poor body a near lifeless shell of itself, and still the cancer stays, as if mocking us, the bastard. 

Cancer eats away at your memories of your loved ones as much as it eats away at their bodies.  Continue reading “The Road”