revelations and evaluations

Along with the importance of losing weight and becoming PHYSICALLY healthier, this process has had other benefits. Primarily, I am starting to understand so much about my own psyche, and body. What moves me? What works for me? What makes me better? What makes me worse? I find journaling to be helpful (No shit, right. I regurgitate every stupid fucking thought I have for the whole world to read... however, I keep personal journals too). Considering what I DO post, you can probably imagine the stupid shit I don’t post. Well, now I am going to post some of the inner most thoughts that have surfaced through this process. By the way, I don’t know that self-actualization is a path that shouldn’t be explored unguided, but at this point, what do I have to lose?

-          Not all diets work the same for all body types. There is no universal fix. I meet so many people who have anecdotes about how perfect a diet works, and then meet other people with the opposite experiences. One diet and exercise plan doesn’t seem to fit all body type).

-          I need cardio. My body likes being fat, and lifting alone doesn’t fix this

-          My body likes putting on muscle.

-          I work out like an idiot and it is making my body hurt (I have concentrated on my upper anterior and neglected my posterior… its destroying my back support and weight distribution and muscular structure). 

-          I need to calorie count

-          My penis becomes a charisma black hole in compression shorts. Loses all its expressive character.

-          I cant look in mirrors when I work out, because I don’t always like myself

-          Veggies make me fart, but I love them.

-          My knees, back and shoulders are paying now, for having neglected stretching in my younger years

-          Sugar and diet soda both make me bloated

-          Enriched flour makes me fat, and fast

-          Dudes who wear shirts in the pool look fatter than dudes who take their shirts off

-          Food matters more for my weight management, than working out

-          I need to be nicer to myself

-          It’s important to have a written out workout plan, so you don’t cheat yourself

-          It’s also a good idea to have a secondary plan for the gym, in case the equipment you wanted is occupied

-          Get massages

-          Not those kind of massages, pervert. Besides, massage therapists don’t fall for my tricks

-          Lean meats make my body feel good.

-          I cant walk nude to the showers without whistling

-          My belly button can hold entire socks worth of lint. This cant be a thing. I cant live in a world where this is my reality

-          People are luke warm about me, and its frustrating... and I let this affect me and my mood

-          I shoot three pointers well

-      The FDA will probably never warm to the idea of adding "pump cheese" or "pump meats" to their list of things with an RDA. 

-          My cardio vascular health is coming along too slowly for my liking.. I am not naturally good at endurance sports

-          I shouldn’t watch my 600lb life. I only have one of two mind frames when I do: mocking, or self-loathing

-          My yellow nike workout shorts are see through in the bright lights of the gym

-          My gym buddies palms are orange because he applies self tanner

-          I need to calorie count. No matter how healthy the food, I need to limit total intake to 2000 calories or less

-          Cauliflower pizza crust is fucking gross, and people who like are stupid assholes.

-          I need a butt. For aesthetics and for structural support.

-          I am unsure about the effectiveness of protein powder. I fear its wasted calories.

-          Alcohol makes me feel bad. Even small amounts. This is upsetting, and probably wont guide my behavior.

-          I have lost enough weight to see that I have knees and ankles, and not meat tube limbs (I just hurt my own feelings)

-          People with initials for names are usually dicks.

-          Podcasts are terrible for keeping me focused on a workout (except Dr Death)… but Busta Rhymes adds 10% to my PR’s

-          Flat soled slip on shoes relieve stress from my back when I workout. The forward slant of running shoes is no good for me

-          My body feels better as I build my upper back, core and leg muscles. I have too much weight in front 

-     Full frontal nudity is always funny in a mens locker room. Dicks are absurd looking

- 

A salty dog with a sandy ______

I love the way groups of friends create their own lexicon. If you are friends with a particular group of people for a long enough time, you will most likely have inside jokes that just become part of your day-to-day terminology. For my friends, one of those terms was invented while on a weekend long trip to see a Red Sox vs Mariners series in Seattle circa 2004. We had arrived at the Renaissance hotel in Seattle on Thursday evening for what would prove to be 72 hours of nonstop drinking and exploring. When I say “nonstop”, I fucking mean it. I woke Friday morning at 8 am to one of my friends, still dripping wet from his shower, doing naked jumping jacks on my bed. This trip was akin to “liver crossfit”.

Usually we tend to be a loving group. We drink, and flirt with each other, and we will inevitably end at least one evening with a drunken declaration of our love for each other.  This trip was a bit different. The previous weekend two of the people on the trip had been involved in an incident at a bar in LA. Friend 1 (We will call him “DJ”) felt that friend 2 (we will call him “Twah”) could have avoided the melee had he just kept his drunken mouth shut. Therefore, we spent the first 24 hours of the trip listening to these two idiots bicker.  DJ was not himself. He could not be subdued.

Also, while on this trip, we kept running into this one group of women. We saw them at the hotel, at two of the bars we went to, as well as at the restaurant we went to for breakfast. They were easy to pick out, because they all three had matching red jackets with “Canada” on the front. It was a running joke that every bar we went to, we would be on the lookout for our Canuck stalkers.

By the time we were headed to Saturday evening’s game, we were a wreck. We had spent 48 hours trying to create a gin shortage in Seattle. We had to be on the buddy system. If we realized one of us had been gone long enough, we had to make sure a search party went out to track him down. Sure enough, with in the first two innings, Twah was nowhere to be found. I got up and started to roam the stadium, before I found him standing by concession stand working his way through a drink. As I wandered over to wrangle him in, Twah and I both saw our red jacketed friends from the north, and without saying a word we walked over to see them. Twah being the only single guy in the group, I knew he would need my help as his wingman. The only issue being, that as we walked up to the group of women, DJ happened to wander up as well. And he the look of bad intentions all over his face.

We began the conversation the way these conversations always begin. We did our best to present a series of worthless statements in as charming a way as possible, and they did their best to humor us and not roll their eyes at the drunken onslaught. This time was a bit different though. The women were chuckling, and seemed genuinely engaged. Twah was making real headway. The only problem was, I could see an inverse relationship between how happy these women were that Twah was being so charming, and how angry DJ was that Twah was having success. As the conversation went on and on, I could see DJ becoming saltier and saltier. His comments were matching his disgust. I knew we were heading for an ordeal. At some point Twah asked the women “whats up with the matching “Canada” jackets”. They told us that they are from Canada, and had been on a trip across the western part of the country, before coming to Seattle. Seeing as how it was summer, they hadn’t thought to bring jackets, but with Vancouver BC and Seattle both being next to bodies of water, they found that the evenings were chilly, and when they bought jackets they thought it was funny to buy matching touristy jackets. “Oh you are from Canada” DJ inquired, “Where about”. When they answered “Regina”... a quiet calm fell over the crowd. I looked at DJ thinking he would make some sort of lazy “bro dude” play on the fact that Regina-Vagina sound so much alike. While I had applied all of my will into silencing D in order to not block Twah’s efforts at fleeting affection that night, little did I know Twah would jump on the cock block grenade himself. I heard Twah mumble out “That’s funny, DJ’s had a sandy Regina all weekend”. The women were not impressed. Twah had sacrificed a potential hook up for the greater good of the group. This is heroism at its finest. Of course, as can be expected, the women soon found a reason to escape our witless tractor beam. I was sure Twah would have remorse at what he had cost himself, but that wasn’t the case. I have never seen anyone find so much success in their own failure.

This was 14 years ago, and we still refer to one of us being cranky as “____ has a sandy Regina”.  

Fast forward to Wednesday. Wednesday, I had a sandy Regina. I couldn’t seem to break out of my funk. Work didn’t go my way, and when I looked in the mirror that morning I felt like the worlds fattest man, and one of my kids was texting me that he needed me to bring his lunch to school because he forgot it, and I was sore from Mondays workout, and… and… and… and.. Basically the whole day had turned me into a salty dog. My sandy Regina had turned me into an uncomfortable and agitated asshole.

I really didn’t even want to work out. I wanted to skip so badly. I started my workout by sitting in the parking lot for probably 15-20 minutes judging all the pretty people that were entering the gym. When I finally entered the front door, I was greeted by some dummy who said “happy humpday”. It took all the restraint in my body to stop from spitting in their face. There is nothing dumber or more insulting than canned small talk. If I ever say “high” or “how are you” to you, and you feel the urge to respond to my greeting with

-          Working hard or hardly working

-          TGIF

-          Living the dream

-          Happy hump day

Or anything resembling this canned idiocy, instead of doing this… just stand really close to me and scream “I have no interest in talking to you. Go FUCK yourself”. Canned responses are a waste of our time. It is the least sincere form of communication. You are not obligated to talk when you don’t want to talk. I wont be offended if you give me a nod of acknowledgement and go on your way. But if you DO drop one of these responses on me, it will absolutely aid in my anger.

I think I was also salty, because I smelt stupid. My workout was hard, and I was sweating profusely. The type of sweating that leaves a huge lake of saturation down the back of your t shirt. While I didn’t have BO, I definitely smelt like someone who didn’t know how to properly clean their own body. I didn’t smell good, I didn’t smell bad…I smelt, well, too stupid to properly clean myself is actually spot on.

All of this being said, this is all the more reason to be happy I worked out. Accomplishing anything is easy under ideal conditions. Its days like today that I am most proud that I got in to the gym. My entire goal is to rewire my brain to have my default setting to include physical activity. So on days that I get up off my ass to work out, even though every inch of my being was boycotting this call to action, are the most important days. These small successes will lead to me changing my lifestyle for good. I also found that getting out and sweating, really getting my blood flowing, is the number one thing for improving my mood. Its days like this, that I am glad I go into the gym with a plan. Had I been left to my own devices I would have left after 10-15 minutes. Overcoming my sandy Regina and forcing myself to workout, is going to be really good for me long term. 

Feminization of the gym

When I was a young man growing up, the gym had certain connotations for me. I pictured a dark, dungeon of a room, with legions of oiled up animals in tank tops regurgitating stupid clichés and peacocking around the gym floor compensating for their misplaced fear of their own latent homosexuality by turning every interaction into a reason to demean each other and declare their unnecessary dominance over one another with false bravado. God damn did I love it. For, I too was once a “bro dude” moron. I wore backward hats, and the idea of self-worth felt like a zero sum game to me. In order for me to have more self-worth, it had to come at someone else’s expense. I could not feel good or worthy of being loved, unless someone else felt bad about themselves... or at least, beneath me.

The only time I have ever felt attractive, or had any semblance of satisfaction with my physical appearance, was when I was 19-22 years old. I had spent my entire childhood as the soft pink kid. I felt invisible to girls, because I was. Then when I was 18 i took a solid year of hard work and dedication and I finally got in shape. Once this happened, I was an untenable piece of crap. It was so fun. Nothing is more fun than being a clueless young dude . The world was made for clueless young skinny dudes, unless you are anyone else besides “skinny young guy”, then they are pretty awful and make the world almost unlivable with their idiocy.

I spent that period of my life working out in a tiny, cement floored hole in the wall of a gym in my home town. The temperature was always an exaggerated version of the outside conditions. If it was chilly outside then the inside of the gym was a tundra, and on warm days you could barely stop from passing out from heat stroke. I think the entire clientele was made up of 15 guys who knew a combined total of 45 words, and we ended every sentence with an insecure attempt at herd mentality validation sought with the uttering of “bro” in an upward inflected request for agreement. To their credit, every member of the knuckle head gathering would belt out an “absolutely, dude” in supportive unison. Every single guy in that gym was there to throw weights around the room and endure joint injuries and wallow in self-satisfaction.

Anyone who knows me now, knows I no longer have any love for bro dude. As I have grown the fuck up, and evolved, I have found no need for toxic masculinity. I am a soft pink father of 3 with nothing to prove to anyone but myself. The only exception to this is when I am in the gym. The truth is, I do find that I have a misplaced competitive streak in the gym. I still have this me vs them mentality. It is so not who I am in any other part of my life. The worst part, for me, is that because I am no longer at the top of the physical pecking order I find that I have a negative self-image when I am working out. My natural state is to be cloyingly optimistic. I tend to the positive, silver lining, side of life. However, when I work out, I feel as though I am somehow less valued than my peers are, because I am not in as good of shape as them. The reality is, fitness and self-image are not zero sum games. My value is not gaged in relation to other peoples value. Not to mention, the gym is a showcase of the most shallow value structure. I am literally impeding my own progress because of a self-inflicted lack of value derived from the fact that I am no longer at the top of the physical food chain.

This is where the feminization of the gym has been an amazing thing for me. What I mean by “feminization of the gym” is that the growing numbers of women in the gym, and the growing numbers of women who lift weights, have started to change the mentality in the weight room. When I was younger, women tended to work out more on the outer rim of the gym. Cardio equipment, and workout classes, were traditional located on the outer rims of the gym, or on a separate floor, but the center stage of the gym was the weight room. Men tended to lift weights, and women did classes and cardio. Yes, I know there have always been exceptions, but as a general rule I feel the gym was inadvertently segregated by gender. This no longer feels like the case. More and more, women are venturing into the weight room floors of the gym.

Now, while it is ridiculous to paint any group/race/gender with one brush, I feel that I have noticed a trend from the women that have started to venture into the weight room… they have each others back. Its refreshing. I feel like these women seem to have grasped what my testosterone challenged brethren have missed… WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER. Fitness is not a zero sum game. I am not better, for my friends being worse. In fact, it is quite the opposite. Having an atmosphere of support and inclusion relieves the heavy cloud that tends to hover in our brains when we work out. The gym can have a “high school PE class” feel to it at times. The negativity surrounding the difficulty that comes with working out, can be the biggest hurdle in improving our health. SO much of this battle is mental. The biggest things between us, and a healthy body, are mentality and education. This drive to remove some of the meathead antics in the gym, are only good for everyone. There are a lot of things that are slowly changing as women become more and more confident roaming out into what was once a lions den atmosphere that comprises the weight room.

-          Removing the negative overly testosterone  fueled vibe of the gym

-          Adding a more inclusive and supportive feel

-          Removing the over sexualization of the gym (grow up guys, gawking at the women at the gym makes them uncomfortable… and as they get more and more comfortable being in the gym, they are making this more and more known… eyes on your own papers, idiots)

-          Removing the body image hurdles that make us afraid to take risks by creating a culture of acceptance

Along these lines, one of the trainers at my gym  (VillaSport in Beaverton, Or) has started a class for men. Seems exactly contrary to this entire post, but it actually falls in line with the message here. The idea behind the class is to retrain our brains. Get us away from the peacocking, and posturing, and create more of an all inclusive vibe in the gym. Teach us proper form, and workout routines. Get us away from just trying to lift every ounce of iron we can, with no real agenda outlined to improve our wellness. We are trying to remove the meathead mentality, and replace it with a support structure, and real world working knowledge of what’s best for our bodies as we age. Removing the stigma of using non-weight training methods, as well as some weight lifting, to strengthen our entire bodies in a way that will allow us to maximize the longevity of our muscles and joints. The class is intended for men, 30-50 who have a working knowledge of the gym, but need that support system and accountability that the female gym patrons have been much more progressive about.

It isn’t shocking to me that the gym is one of the last bastions of the might = right mentality. It is a refreshing change to see the gym being integrated and the vibe changing to become more accepting. It is long overdue and makes us all better, inside and out. That being said, it is important for you ladies in the gym to return the favor, and stop objectifying us men as well. The rules of public decorum clearly state “no booby honking”… this goes for my boobies too. (note from the author: I just hurt my own feelings with that last sentence).

Showdown at the Probably Not OK coral

I have discussed “Likes to be naked guy” before. There is a generation a bit older than I am (I am 40), that grew up with more of a Caligula’s palace view of locker rooms. Men between the ages of 48-dead. These men are tough, and surly, and do not understand the younger generation. I feel like they all look like Marlboro men, or Kenny Rogers.  A lot of them have grey beards, tucked in polos, and white off brand tennis shoes. Others have a dirty baseball cap, and gaudy t shirt, with unsettling tight jeans. Both versions are guys guys, and use accidentally offensive language, and most importantly… both versions are aggressively nude in the locker room.  

“Likes to be naked guy” roams the locker room nude, greeting newcomer’s dong first with a smile. Powdering their undercarriage at the sink, and shaving, all while wearing nothing more than flip flops.

I am proud to call many of these men my friend. Most are respectful of personal space, and I am not uncomfortable around penises. I like a little ballyhoo. I also feel I am a bit of an old man myself. I tend to relate to these throwbacks of a bygone era. I like muscle car chase movies, and Waylon Jennings, and exaggerating tales of high school heroics, and I really love exposing myself in a semi appropriate setting. But today, things went too far.

When I entered the locker room, I noticed that a new “Likes to be naked guy” was in the same locker bay as the locker I had put my clothes in. This dude was aggressively naked, even for the normal naked guy standards. He was making quick, unpredictable movements, like an old grey haired bunny. He also wasn’t sitting on a towel, which I take exception to. Don’t go bhole to bench (this is sort of my motto). He also had all of his stuff spread out through out the locker bay, so I couldn’t get to my locker.

Being a nice guy, and having just had an intense workout, I decided just to give him time and go shower while he got dressed. I took my sweet ass time showering, and applying deodorant, and singing power ballads, but when I got back… he was in the exact same spot as where I left him. Clothes strewn about, and bhole to bench.

The novelty had worn off. I was no longer feeling like this old timey fuckers kindred spirit. Therefore, I furrowed my brow and tried to scoot past him. I did the sideways foot shuffle with my ass mere millimeters away from the lockers, while being careful not to give Nudity McRudenstein an inadvertent back rub. As I was starting to pass him, he looked over his shoulder and glared while he said “excuse you”. This... this… well… it didn’t sit right. I gave him more than enough time to get dressed while I did my own abbreviated gallivanting. I don’t take shitty exchanges like this well. I can not shake off rude comments and go about my way. I am wired to take instant offense, and set into antics that will undoubtedly make things worse. Today was no different.

When I reached my locker, I grabbed all of my stuff, and instead of racing to put on my clothes and leave, I dumped all of my stuff out of my backpack onto the bench next to my new friend. I grabbed my razor, and a towel, and went off to do some nude shaving. On my way out of the locker bay, I made sure to drop my shaving cream can, and bent over to pick it up in a not so concealed way. I know he looked. I know he was not pleased.

After shaving, I stood and picked food from my teeth for a while, played the drums on my tummy in the mirror, I started chatted with a friend for a while. A very respectful friend who keeps his eyes on his own paper. I was explaining to him, unnecessarily loudly, how I hate when the old nude dudes don’t know to keep their junk off of public things. That’s  the first rule of life. “If you don’t own it, keep your penis off it”. I don’t care if he humps every inch of everything he owns. Keep your stuff off the community property.

After 10-15 minutes, I grew tired of my own naked antics, and it was a bit chilly, so I wandered back to the bay of lockers, and saw that my nude rival was still there. Only now he was wearing black socks, only black socks, and was standing facing me. We stood and locked eyes, and I could hear the theme from “The Good The Bad and The Ugly” in my head. That trademark whistle was blowing through my eyes. This was a showdown of good v evil. Hell, he was even wearing black socks in lieu of a black cowboy hat. We stood locking eyes for what felt like an eternity. All the other patrons of the locker room ran for cover. The first one to move aside lost. It is a dance as old as time itself. After what felt like an eternity, I started to slowly walk toward my locker. Eyes still fixed deep into his eyes, guns drawn. Then, right as I approached the bay, he turned to the side to let me pass.

This was more than just winning a battle; it was like winning the war. I felt as though I not only bested a member of the previous generation, but it felt like the passing of the torch. It was a non verbal acknowledgment that my generation was taking over. We were setting the standards. This was a big win for me. I cant think of a better way to end a great workout, than winning this gun fight.