I HAVE INJURED MYSELF WHILE LIFTING WEIGHTS AT THE GYMNASIUM.
We all knew this was coming. This is kind of baked into the cake. I knew full well, when I dreamed of “I will write a thing every day about what it is like to get into shape when you’re almost 40” that the whole fucking thing was going to be a set-up and the punchline was going to be me breaking my own dumb ass while doing some dumbass thing with my stupid dumb ass. AND LO, THE PROPHESY!
And OF COURSE, it happened just when I had, just seconds before, looked at myself in the mirror in the gym and thought, “HUH. Things are really coming along!” And I felt GREAT about myself, which is always just inviting shit to your door, like, just calling up 1-800-SHIT-ON-ME and they’re like, “Hello, how may we shit on you today?” “Oh, I’m feeling very good about myself, physically.” “Alright, we will send some thugs first thing in the morning, sir.”
I looked at myself in the mirror, all but kissed my burgeoning muscles, took a seat on the rowing apparatus and WHOA WHOA WHUP WHUP WHUP.
AND LOOK. I can deal with things. I have a massive threshold for humiliation. BELIEVE ME. I would not have made it this far in this wretched life without that coping mechanism on point. I could give a shit. I’ll deal with whatever. Like, if suddenly Planet Fitness somehow connected my phone to the overhead speakers and everyone could hear that I was listening to Jim Croce, before they could point at laugh at the Grey-Haired Old Man I would be passionately making the case for listening to relaxing music (rather than thumping cheerleader-y horse shit) while lifting weights and, anyway, Jim Croce is beautiful, man. Like, that one song where he’s all drunk and talking to the operator? That shit is fucking incredible. And then they’d ask what an operator was, and I’d be off to the races, man. I’m always ready to teach the kids about the old days and Mudhoney and so on.
Anyway, there’s no greater declaration of I Am An Old Man than the sudden, impotent reach for the small of your back. Staggering around, making that face. Finding a mat to stretch out on the stupid floor. I just pray to God I didn’t make some humiliating noise when it happened. I couldn’t tell (I was listening to Jim Croce pretty loud, you guys.)
I don’t *think* I made the Hank Hill noise, but who knows?
I have 12 days left until it is time to shove my dumb butt into a ‘Sup Ladies He-Man tank top. I am preeeeeetty close to looking good in it. But this does not bode well. This sucks. “Fortunately” I have chronic back pain, which has mostly left me alone since I took up yoga, but I pretty regularly get janked up out of nowhere so I’ve got my routine down. Heating pad, ice packs, massager, pain pills and the so on and ooooh booze yeah booooooze.
UGH. I should not drink the booze. But ugh.
I would be remiss if I did not mention that Jen also goddamned injured herself, and that pissed me off more than anything. Like, this whole blog is a wholesale rip-off of Jen’s idea and I even have to rip off her injury? The fuck? I’m not even going to go into my awesome material about not being able to get off the toilet because Jen already pretty much dunked that motherfucker with two hands. Just read Jen talking about not being able to get off the toilet and imagine me saying it and hooray, blogging.
So whoopiedooo. I’ve spent the last two days staggering around with a Ben Gay patch on my back and this morning my son demonstrated “Daddy’s new exercise” by rolling around on the floor and going “GAAAAHHHHHHH.” I have felt better about myself. Like, say, five minutes before I threw my back out at the gymnasium.
But this blog is about perseverance, and so I shall. I shall continue on, and never lose sight of the one unifying theory of life that I have maintained and will hold close forever: life is a bunch of dumb bullshit and you should never try new shit because the world will just fucking kneecap you no matter what. Put that on a poster.
Oh, oooh, that’s actually pretty good. OK, gonna go lay down, you do whatever.