Being Human is Stupid

As a kid, my favorite superhero was Superman. As I grew older and learned that the positive side of my genetic makeup (there is one!) included a "strong build" and ease adding muscle, I had all that Superman imagery in my head as I tried to develop my body. I'd never leap tall buildings or stop bullets or be able to see through clothing--stuff teen boys would really, really like to do--but even a semi-sane understanding of my all-too-human physical limits didn't stop me from feeling disappointed when I was too damned pooped to pop.

After getting fat and going through a series of career choices that usually had me parked on my ass in front of some kind of screen before returning to exercise again I was initially patient with myself. I recognized, in a ruthless way, that I was starting from less than zero. If I pushed myself too hard, too soon, I would either quit or die of a massive cardiac event, collapsing in a pile of sweaty drool by the road somewhere. 

Once I was below 200 pounds and my waist between 31 and 32 inches, I started pushing it. The kid inside, who stood in line to see the first Christopher Reeve Superman and did the same with all the sequels (before the wretched fourth film destroyed all that was good in cinema) stirred to life and began to have a voice in what I was doing. That's when I began adding kettlebells to my workouts, in addition to more bodyweight exercise and dumbbell work.

Sometimes, that inner wannabe superhero (he alternates days with Sgt. Hammerhead Lockjaw when it comes to 'get Steve to brutalize himself' duty) is a good thing. Sometimes, he is not my friend. He's an asshole. 

I am too cynical to be a rah-rah "YOU CAN DO IT" sort of guy about much of anything, so I can only give what church folks down south call "witness" about one positive benefit from regular exercise. At this point it's clear to me that my immune system is in much better shape than it was 2 or 3 years ago. I still get sick, but less often. When I do get sick, I frequently shrug it off some 3 to 5 days earlier than I once did. 

Last weekend, I was feeling a little low. On Saturday I ran 2 miles then walked 2. Saturday evening I'd planned on a kettlebell workout but I wasn't up to it. My internal superhero wannabe and Sgt. Hammerhead Lockjaw gave each other sad looks and shrugged, but I thought, "screw you guys" and drank a shot of vodka. At first I wondered if I had just overdone it earlier in the week, but by Sunday it was clear I had some kind of low-grade virus, with a mild fever and a little congestion.

I had all these plans, man. I was going to start upping my running mileage. Sure, I live in the snowiest goddamned city in the damned country (seriously) and on March 26 it's still mid-winter cold out with snow piled everywhere, but spring has to come sometime so I want to hit the nice spring days to come piling on the miles. I was also going to do more two-a-day workouts, where I did cardio in the morning and strength at night. I'm on more than one mission, here, see. Sure, I want to be a fit old dude, hopefully tack on a few years I might not have had otherwise, but I also recently decided that now I'm in a stable place weight-wise and at a certain level of fitness, I want to see how far I can go. I will likely write about that another time, but what I'm getting at is HAVING A DAMNED COLD WAS GOING TO RUIN EVERYTHING. 

That's what I was hearing in my head, anyway.

Inwardly, I sighed, nodded and stayed on the damned couch drinking fluids and resting. I did what you're supposed to do. 

Because I'm 45, not 15. When I was 15 and doing a show at a community theater on the Vanderbilt campus, this kid named Bobby and I would climb the roof over the green room and jump off and roll in the grass. It was probably a ten foot drop. I would break all over the place if I did that now, regardless of how much I've improved my overall level of fitness, because delusional as I can be, I am fully aware that even if I'm fitter and stronger at 45 than I was at 15, I damn sure am less elastic, less "springy." 

And there's not a damn thing wrong with occasionally recognizing, once you reach this age, that it's okay take a breather, sometimes. Not only am I the opposite of superhuman, I spent most of my 30s being somewhere between 90 and 110 pounds overweight. I don't know all the long-term consequences of that period of sedentary, overweight living but I dread them and don't want to rush them now that I've done something about the issue by being idiotically gung-ho. 

Today I woke feeling better. I've run 2 miles at a decent pace and I followed that up with 8 minutes of high-intensity kettlebells. Tonight I may do a slower-paced, more thorough workout. I might do two workouts again tomorrow, just to see if I can. After making it a point to rest for two solid days, I've got some sniffles but otherwise fine. 

I'll keep it up, too, until my body reminds me sometimes I have to stop and admit my limits. At this age, I sometimes simply don't have a choice. 

All things being equal, I still think being a human is stupid. But it's all we've got.