I woke up at 6:00 this morning feeling rested and determined. I am yet to exercise. Day ten feels exactly like day one.
It's not easy. 23-year old me remembers 18-year old me and how excited he was about his work out every single day. I remember the addiction to it; how in the beginning it tasted like an ashtray but how eventually it seeped into my system and found myself slinking off into the cellar every 30 minutes for a fix. God, do I wish pull-ups came with nicotine.
In between the repulsion and the cravings I remember some foggy time of discipline and maybe an act of will. I'm not positive about those weeks, unfortunately. I think AJ, in his infinite wisdom, may have made sure to ride me particularly hard during that period. I'm sure he knew if I were allowed to dwell on how sour those days tasted they'd only have defeated me.
Either way, I truly detest the limited capabilities of my memory. Had I been blogging back then I'd at least have some written account to refer to. What I would give for some concrete evidence, something to prove how it had all been done before (even more, how it had been done by me). A record could definitely offer some valuable perspective. Presently, all I have are theories that run in circles. Was it the blind ambition of youth, that thirst for an unexplored frontier; the youthful ambition of vanity, wanting to see how beautiful I could make my body; or was it the vain ambition of the blind who simply wander without bearings, hoping they don't wind up exactly where they started, as if they could tell the difference. It is a daily struggle to find enthusiasm.
Every time I look in the mirror my reflection half-smiles back at me, vastly disappointed with the place he's standing yet meekly hopeful this is the place he's supposed to be. Hopefully this dissatisfaction is me learning some valuable lessons that will be necessary on the path toward future, unknowable joys. However, to let that hope outweigh the disappointment takes a little more faith than I am comfortable with.
Isn't it supposed to get easier the longer you do something? Didn't I hear that somewhere, once, a long, long time ago? And more importantly, aren't we supposed to find happiness exactly where we are? I repeat this mantra in my head over and over again I am grateful, I am grateful, I am grateful and I certainly am for some things. A lot of people are far worse off than me. I have a home, I have a family, I have a job. I'm only 23 years old, for God's sake. Aren't these the blessing some people starve for, pray for, kill and die for? I'm an American, middle-class, loved, young, free, white male and I have the nerve to be unhappy. I feel like such a spoiled brat.
The solution is shut up. The solution is smile. The solution is suck it up and stop with all the self-pitying. It's not supposed to be easy. Easy is a word for planning and retrospect and that's not where people exist. Life is hard. There's no other word for it. Life is day after day of hard, hard work and it doesn't ever end. It's like that Greek myth, Sisyphus, where the gods compel a king to push some boulder up a hill over and over again only to watch it roll back down for all eternity. He's cursed, damned, doomed. Game over, Sisyphus. The only way he'll ever be happy is if he somehow finds a way to enjoy his tedium. Ah, there's the rub. The Happy Life: a series of petty, difficult, unglamorous tasks... and pleasure in the doing.
One of my dogs is scared to come down the basement stairs. She's crying at the door right now, hoping someone will come and carry her down. Sorry, babe. That's not how stairs work.
Guess I'm gonna shut up and go to the weight room now.
Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.
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