There are a handful of real estate topics floating through my brain, but almost all are being pushed aside by the simple reality that I can’t lift my arms. The reason? A much-needed return to the gym and a long-dreaded return to the weights.
Signs that I need to be return have been all around, and not just in the “would you like to be here to see me in a few months” variety from the cardiologist. I took my daughter to the movies yesterday, bracing for the joy of diet soda, only to find Harkins Theatres now has Coke Zero. Sweet!
(My wife asked if I ordered the Coke Zero. I told her yes, but that I also had them add some butter flavoring since I didn’t have any on my popcorn.)
Last night we went out to eat and discovered fried pickles had been removed from the menu at the restaurant we visited. I shouldn’t have wanted these, but I’m only a couple of days in and it takes time to work all the junk out of your system.
The final straw had to be the gym itself on Monday, where I planned only to do some cardio on this, my grand return. Except there was a trainer standing near the doorway with one of those body-fat doohickeys. And my reading came up “Stay-Puft.” And so I ambled over to the machines and started lifting. Nothing extreme - I’ve done this before and know you can’t just jump in cold turkey.
My last foray into the gym resulted in the loss of 30-odd pounds and about 15% body fat. That also was five years ago. And as I continue to discover, there are extreme differences in what a body will do at 33 and at 38.
Warning sign one came Monday night when I discovered my arms didn’t bend. I spent most of yesterday asking friends to scratch my back (not metaphorically - I couldn’t reach the damn thing) and also tried eating left-handed since that was the only hand I could get within six inches of my mouth.
After stretching on and off through the day, everything had loosened up by last night. My mom was kind enough to remind me the second day always is worse. I pooh-pooh’d this notion, thinking it couldn’t get worse.
HA!
By 2 a.m. this morning, both arms had stopped bending again. I had exactly two positions in which to sleep, one of which resembled a hieroglyphic. And today’s not been too much better, though this aching is more akin to what I had become accustomed to once upon a time. Lactic acid is my friend, lactic acid is my friend.
Real estate’s a terrible profession if you want to get/stay in shape. Meals often are eaten in the front seat of your car, often out of paper bags supplied by fast-food restaurants. And there are long stretches spent either sitting in the car or sitting in front of a monitor preparing to get into the car.
With a flexible schedule, it would seem easy to find an hour a day to spend at the gym. But that is an hour where you’re not working and trying to earn a living. Self-employment is a wonderful thing.
In any event, I’m working on clearing time for a return trip to the gym as history shows the best cure for lactic acid buildup is another workout.
All I need to do is find a way to raise my arms to the steering wheel and I’m all set.
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Tags: Miscellany by Jonathan Dalton
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