No music speaks to you quite like classic rock when enduring an hour or so of self-inflicted physical anguish. When you're five reps deep in the third set of your second rotation of wide-grip pull-ups, veins bulging out of your neck, eyes bulging out of your face, and Axel Rose welcomes you to the jungle, baby, you actually feel like you're gonna die. Nothing like pumping iron to a little Iron Maiden (trust me, the lyrics hit you on completely new levels).
The first day of anything is difficult. The doubts and worries associated with a new journey are somehow magically amplified just before that first blindfolded step, like playing an existential game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. You have to pretty much trust you're not dizzily walking into on-coming traffic, but you're not 100% about it. Maybe you'll trip down some stairs, maybe you'll crack you're skull open on the landing, and maybe you'll wind up in an emergency room thoroughly regretting you ever played at all. Suddenly the couch calls out your name and ambitions seem a little more silly than they do important. You find yourself staring at the family dog sprawled out on the floor, dragging his balls across the living room carpet, looking back at you with a mixture of shame and satisfaction and you think to yourself nostalgically, "God, that could be me."
I was that dog from 8:30-11:45 this morning (and years upon years before that) desperately postponing the inevitable. I retreated to the refrigerator, the television, the Internet, the toilet; I read a chapter in my book, and brushed my teeth twice, and racked my brain for anything I'd rather be doing, please God I don't wanna exercise. My call time for work rapidly approached, my window of opportunity slowly chipped away and I almost didn't make it. I almost pushed it off to tomorrow, yet again. I almost quit this project on the very first day. But then... I didn't.
I swear if I hadn't published that damn mission statement yesterday I would've just popped some jiffy pop, popped in a movie and pretended this whole thing never happened. Yesterday it would've been far too easy not to hold myself accountable.
Rep by rep, inch by inch, the universe kicked me square in the crotch over and over again with a sadistic little smirk on its smug fucking face. Ow, my arms hurt already. Oof, I'm out of breath. Christ, I'm cold, or I'm hot, or I'm just freakin' uncomfortable in a million different ways but I held to my Classic Rock and then! ... a screw gave way. Not a figurative screw, an actual screw. One second I'm mid bench-press, the next I'm 45 degrees closer to the ground struggling to stop 125 lbs of bar bell from crashing down on my throat. Not making this up. Somedays the universe is just a raging cunt.
It took me about 30 seconds of cursing through clenched teeth before I managed to set bar securely on safety catches. I wriggled out from underneath the bench station, sit-up sat up, and breathed out one giant, grateful exhalation. On the radio, those sons-a-bitches from Stone Temple Pilots told me, "I'm half the man I used to be." (... Yeah, I get it. Fuck you, too, Scott Weiland.)
It took long minutes to convince myself that this wasn't some terrible omen. My mind buzzed with a million and one reasons to stop, every excuse as enticing as that second pot brownie, but heading for the door I realized, Wait... I didn't die... Damn it. In fact, I survived rather thoroughly. Not a scratch, not a bruise, my heart still beating and my back still sore and excuses are for dead people. Unfortunately for my lazy Irish ass, I found myself quite alive, and so I turned around.
It is now forty-five minutes later. My tits hurt, I can't scratch my shoulder blades anymore, and I smell like 26 different flavors of ass. However, I feel more alive than I've felt all month. Shocking no one more than I shock myself, I'll call this a begrudgingly successful day one.
Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.
I was that dog from 8:30-11:45 this morning (and years upon years before that) desperately postponing the inevitable. I retreated to the refrigerator, the television, the Internet, the toilet; I read a chapter in my book, and brushed my teeth twice, and racked my brain for anything I'd rather be doing, please God I don't wanna exercise. My call time for work rapidly approached, my window of opportunity slowly chipped away and I almost didn't make it. I almost pushed it off to tomorrow, yet again. I almost quit this project on the very first day. But then... I didn't.
I swear if I hadn't published that damn mission statement yesterday I would've just popped some jiffy pop, popped in a movie and pretended this whole thing never happened. Yesterday it would've been far too easy not to hold myself accountable.
Rep by rep, inch by inch, the universe kicked me square in the crotch over and over again with a sadistic little smirk on its smug fucking face. Ow, my arms hurt already. Oof, I'm out of breath. Christ, I'm cold, or I'm hot, or I'm just freakin' uncomfortable in a million different ways but I held to my Classic Rock and then! ... a screw gave way. Not a figurative screw, an actual screw. One second I'm mid bench-press, the next I'm 45 degrees closer to the ground struggling to stop 125 lbs of bar bell from crashing down on my throat. Not making this up. Somedays the universe is just a raging cunt.
It took me about 30 seconds of cursing through clenched teeth before I managed to set bar securely on safety catches. I wriggled out from underneath the bench station, sit-up sat up, and breathed out one giant, grateful exhalation. On the radio, those sons-a-bitches from Stone Temple Pilots told me, "I'm half the man I used to be." (... Yeah, I get it. Fuck you, too, Scott Weiland.)
It took long minutes to convince myself that this wasn't some terrible omen. My mind buzzed with a million and one reasons to stop, every excuse as enticing as that second pot brownie, but heading for the door I realized, Wait... I didn't die... Damn it. In fact, I survived rather thoroughly. Not a scratch, not a bruise, my heart still beating and my back still sore and excuses are for dead people. Unfortunately for my lazy Irish ass, I found myself quite alive, and so I turned around.
It is now forty-five minutes later. My tits hurt, I can't scratch my shoulder blades anymore, and I smell like 26 different flavors of ass. However, I feel more alive than I've felt all month. Shocking no one more than I shock myself, I'll call this a begrudgingly successful day one.
Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.
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