By the end of the summer session, the bus driver and I were on pretty friendly terms. When we got to my stop he would turn and say, "Alright then, brother. You take care now." And as I stepped off the bus I would turn and say, "Thanks a lot, man. You have a good one." And as he closed the doors he would say, "Will do. You stay out of the sun now, you hear?" And right before the double doors squeaked shut I would say, "Will do."
For a large number of nights spread out thickly over a large number of years I've watched my reflection in the glass of the front door as I made my final stalk down the hallway from the kitchen to the stairs. By the end of the hallway my posture would be fixed and, fully upright, I'd stride confidently around the banister and dart up the stairs in my ill-fitting pajama pants hanging off my hips. My reflection was always the same: a slim, cutting figure that betrayed tales of Peter Parker-like flexibility and boyish agility. And I mean cutting in the way that a toothpick might cut into a plank of wood.
That is, to say, embarrassingly.
So I, a few nights ago, finally tired of my body frame that had merely increased in height and not mass over the years, decided that I would start working out. When I'm excited about something, or when I'm at least pretending to be excited about something, I go at it with reckless abandon until I get distracted by something more exciting. Adding working out to my routine is not something I can get particularly excited about. It's the sort of thing where I need someone to pull me along through the gym as I kick and scream inside of my head and go along with everything complacently. And even when they point to the pull-up bars and say, "Now, try and do as many pull-ups as you possibly can." and struggling to finish the second one, I still go along with whatever they say. Because they clearly know something about working out that I don't. Willpower, I think.
So when I say that I started working out, I mean that I closed the curtains, shut the door, and lifted a 25 pound dumbbell with both hands a couple times until I got tired and stopped. Then my arms got pretty sore and I've been told that's how you know your muscles are going to get bigger. I have to admit that I have my doubts. But then again, they know something about working out that I don't.
It's a different bus driver now. My days are too far between and too long when they arrive. I say, "Thanks, man." as I walk out the doors and he stares straight ahead and says, "...Okay." And then, as the doors close, I don't say anything and keep walking to my car.
For a large number of nights spread out thickly over a large number of years I've watched my reflection in the glass of the front door as I made my final stalk down the hallway from the kitchen to the stairs. By the end of the hallway my posture would be fixed and, fully upright, I'd stride confidently around the banister and dart up the stairs in my ill-fitting pajama pants hanging off my hips. My reflection was always the same: a slim, cutting figure that betrayed tales of Peter Parker-like flexibility and boyish agility. And I mean cutting in the way that a toothpick might cut into a plank of wood.
That is, to say, embarrassingly.
So I, a few nights ago, finally tired of my body frame that had merely increased in height and not mass over the years, decided that I would start working out. When I'm excited about something, or when I'm at least pretending to be excited about something, I go at it with reckless abandon until I get distracted by something more exciting. Adding working out to my routine is not something I can get particularly excited about. It's the sort of thing where I need someone to pull me along through the gym as I kick and scream inside of my head and go along with everything complacently. And even when they point to the pull-up bars and say, "Now, try and do as many pull-ups as you possibly can." and struggling to finish the second one, I still go along with whatever they say. Because they clearly know something about working out that I don't. Willpower, I think.
So when I say that I started working out, I mean that I closed the curtains, shut the door, and lifted a 25 pound dumbbell with both hands a couple times until I got tired and stopped. Then my arms got pretty sore and I've been told that's how you know your muscles are going to get bigger. I have to admit that I have my doubts. But then again, they know something about working out that I don't.It's a different bus driver now. My days are too far between and too long when they arrive. I say, "Thanks, man." as I walk out the doors and he stares straight ahead and says, "...Okay." And then, as the doors close, I don't say anything and keep walking to my car.
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Also, sauce is weak.