A musician, a policeman and a mom walk into a gym. The policeman and the musician are silent, mentally preparing for the man some have taken to calling “The Cuban Assassin” and others simply call “Rick.”
Rick enters the room. For a second there I thought the horizontal and vertical settings on my eyeballs were out of whack. The man is twice as thick as a “normal” man his height. Impressed, policeman and I said nothing to one another, stared at the floor preparing our mind and soul for whatever Rick was about to do to us.
The mom was not silent. She looked at us as if we’d ask her how her day was and then told us. About how crazy Wal-Mart was. How annoying her middle child was while in Wal-Mart. About what Wal-Mart stopped carrying. About how she’s never going to Wal-Mart again but how she’s said before and…
Then Rick had us “baby-step” quickly through a long ladder pattern on the ground for a minute. Then move back and forth between cones while in the squatting position for a minute. Then work on triceps for a minute. Then squats while curling. Then shoulders while squatting in an entirely different and more evil way. Then abs and push-ups for five minutes. Then a medicine ball thing while jumping on and off a springing step thing. And then the whole gambit again.
On the second go around I thought to myself, “Self, you’re doing pretty well.” Nothing on my body was hurting, shaking, screaming for help (all that loudly). My heart rate was up (the whole point for me) but I wasn’t winded. Apparently the little bit of exercise I do some nights at home did more for me than I realized. I was feeling a little cocky.
Then, while doing the squatting curls thing again, I burped and tasted the fish from dinner juuuuuust a little bit. Then I burped again. And again. And then I felt like the fish wanted out. Immediately.
Rick saw the distress on my face and asked how I was doing. There was no way I was taking a break before Wal-Mart mom did. So I waved him off and kept working. Until we switched squatting positions and then, well, I had to decide which would be worse: Resting before Wal-Mart mom did or vomiting on near her.
So I went and deposited my fish tacos in the trash can, swished some water in my mouth, and rejoined the group for push-ups and abs.
According to Rick, it’s a bad idea to eat fifteen minutes before exercising with him. Huh. Who’d of thunk it?
I’ll be back. With no fish. But I might bring my own trash can just in case.
Every morning Becky gets up and heads to a workout place with her sister. Every morning for four days now. Before that, for months before that, Becky woke up before the kids and I, popped a DVD in her laptop and kicked and lifted and sat up and whatnot for about an hour. Every morning. While I slept.
I’m thin. (Have you noticed?) Actually, here are the real live numbers: I’m six foot two inches tall and I weigh in at 137 pounds as of Monday. Maybe I’ve seen too many Disney movies but I really don’t care (almost every day) what I (and you) look like.
(On the days I do care it’s usually because a non-thin “fan” has reminded me oh-so-delicately after a show that I am in fact “scary thin” and says something like “Boy, you need to eat!” or “Are you anorexic or somethin’?” Which happens regularly in Houston, Orlando and all of Wisconcin. For some reason it’s OK for a non-thin person to tell me I’m thin in front of a dozen or so people but not OK for me to then reply with “And you’re not.” Go figure. But I’m obviously not bothered at all by any of this, no sir. Well adjusted and forgiving, I am.)
But there is a downside to this being thin thing. I lie.
A lot of thin people, I suspect, do this. We tell ourselves we don’t need to exercise. We tell ourselves that because work-out places and books and magazines and parents on diets tend to talk about exercise only as a way to get thin. That’s the only or most oft expressed goal. And, heck, I am thin already, so most of my life I’ve said I’ll pass on the whole sweating thing, thanks muchly. My “recreation” credits in college were earned by bowling and doing some stretching and breathing that looked a lot like Yoga but was called “Stress Management and Relaxation” by the Baptist(ish) university I attended for obvious soul preserving in-the-world-but-not-of-it sorts of reasons. I am, in a word, inactive. And, in another, happy.
But since marrying, Becky has nagged reminded me again and again that exercise is something we should do to stay healthy and live longer and function better and make the most of the body God has gifted to us and that if I die before her she’ll likely immediately begin sleeping around. With Irish guys. Or friends of mine from high school. (She’s evil because she went to a state school you know?)
And this message of hers turns out to be more persuasive -with much repetition - than any other exercise marketing I’ve encountered. It’s also true that, while I am thin, I do get winded and crampy and occasionally vomit when running to my flight’s gate or doing other physically intense stuff like vacuuming. So tonight I’m trying this class thing at the place she works out. Its description on the brochure contains the words “boot camp” and also lots of exclamation marks!!!!!!!! Yay.
It’s a free trial. But, I’m told, if I “like” the class I can pay the muscled leader guy named Rick (who we actually know and is nice and certified and worth every penny) to make me hate him and hurt myself on a more regular basis.
I’ll keep you updated on my progress toward health because I’m just so certain your life is small and quite the void without knowledge of such minutia about my life. Note: There will be no shirtless videos posted here in said updates. My apologies.
Last night my in-laws took my kids and Brian‘s kids down the street to a hotel to get high on all the partially hydrogenated oil, Red #40 and high fructose corn syrup they could bring over on the plane from Texas. And to swim.
Becky and I went to Redneck Neighbor‘s favorite restaurant, then to Blockbuster. Becky and I, if we get to see a movie at home, watch it on my laptop in my office so the kids won’t be disturbed. But last night we watched on a real live television set with the couch pulled away from the wall and plopped just four feet from the screen. Our television seemed to glow a bit more than usual - happiness I think - thankful to be channeling something besides Dora The Explorer through itself. I’d like to think.
We watched P.S. I Love You - yet another American made romantic flick starring a good-looking guy with muscles and an accent. Halfway through, long about the time the second good-looking Irish guy with muscles and an accent joins the plot, Becky blurts out, as if possessed and unable to keep the words in, as if forgetting I’m right there beside her, “I want to move to Ireland.” I bet she does.
But we’ve been to Ireland. Twice. And we saw lots of green grass and sheep and lots of guys with accents drinking Guinness, but none were all that muscled and most of them were a bit pale to be honest. Nice but a bit a pale. And she has a bit pale at home, right here in Tennessee, so...I guess what I’m saying is the whole movie made me a bit insecure about my lack of muscles and accent and sheep and Irishness and general romanticness. Of course in chick clicks “romantic” is unprofessional (usually a musician of some sort) and a little unclean (usually tossled hair, stubble, t-shirt and jeans) and a little flaky (usually a musician of some sort). And, hey, she’s got that already so why move to Ireland? All I need are a few more candles around the house, abs and other muscles, a tan, and someone to write clever dialogue for me like “Every morning I still wake up and the first thing I want to do is to see your face.” I’ll work on that.
Next, we watched Rendition. (I know, two movies. It was a crazy partay of a night.) I didn’t know a thing about this movie, neither did Becky, but it had some big stars in it and the box said it was a “thriller” so we grabbed it. We didn’t know it would grab us. It was disturbing, mostly because we knew the events in it were dramatizations of real acts of rendition. Rendition is a policy that was initiated by the Clinton administration. Rendition is a political word for “kidnapping.” Individuals who are potential threats to the United States or linked to people who are potential threats to the United States can be kidnapped and taken to not-so-secret secret prisons around the world in places like Morocco and Guantanamo without oversight by the judicial system. In other words, there is no warrant issued, no proof of connection to our enemies required, no notification of arrest made to the family of the detainee, no trial, no law.
The rendition policy is said to have been created as a way of combatting terrorism, detaining potential terrorist threats. But the policy has evolved. It now is believed by some to entail not only detention but also torture. The film raises important questions about the effectiveness of the program: Will a tortured starved man say anything to stop the abuse? Is anything he says trustworthy? And ethical questions: What is torture? Is the torture of the innocent with the guilty an act of terrorism? Is the death and torture of the innocent an acceptable price for U.S. security? Questions about the wisdom of torturing one’s enemies and concealing it: Does the kidnapping and torture of thousands create more enemies than it destroys? And questions about our form of government: Can our elected officials - the most wealthy and powerful supported by the wealthiest and most powerful - ever be trusted to act in the best interests of anyone but the most wealthy and powerful? If the son of a wealthy and powerful American who contributes to political campaigns were to be kidnapped in an airport and sent to Morocco to be starved and electrocuted, would rendition be stopped by Congress?
One special feature on the DVD was a documentary called Outlawed. It’s not very good. And it tells the story of only two men who’ve been allegedly tortured and imprisoned without trial by the U.S. government in secret prisons. And there are holes in the story and we’re only hearing their side of it. But even the little bit of information it provides on our rendition policy is disturbing enough I think to test the trust of the most patriotic citizen among us. The simple question I went to bed with was this: Is the best way to combat a violent unethical enemy to behave as violently and unethically as he does? That’s not what I teach my kids about how to treat bullies. But then, I can hear some of you typing soon, my kids aren’t being blown up on the playground. Not yet.
Weird date night to say the least. Weird world.
I was, um, taking a rest in the restroom at the Nashville airport somewhere on concourse C when my wife called wondering why I wasn’t at baggage claim just yet. I ignored the call because I didn’t want to be that guy - the guy who talks on his phone in the restroom. She called again. I once again ignored it. Then again. I answered, explained the reason for my tardiness in a hushed voice and hung up.
You know, those phones are slippery suckers. And I’m a manly man. I must have pressed that little red button awfully hard because - SLIP - out of my hand went the phone and - PLUNK - into the product of my resting it plunged.
I went in after it and, after much antibacterial-wipe-ing, I plugged it in and got no happy little green charging light. It’s dead. My $19-with-a-2-year-contract phone is dead.
So if you’ve been trying to reach me...you might go the e-mail route for a few days.
There are two words I need to hear from you if we’re going to be close friends. I’ll love you and even like you if I don’t hear these two words, but, I’ll admit, I won’t feel all that loved. I need to hear “sorry” and “thanks.”
I’m a words guy. You don’t have to give me stuff, do nice things for me, spend time with me, for me to feel the love. All you have to do is say or write something nice. Anything really. I’m easy. “Good job” on such and such. “I appreciate” this or that. “I like” fill in the blank about you. And we’re good. For years, we’re good. I’ll remember that one time you said that one thing and it’ll keep me feeling loved and keep us connected in my mind for a long long time.
Words are tremendously important to me. I assume your words, or lack thereof, are a reflection of how you truly think and feel. Words are the overflow, as the bible says, of what’s in our heart. Sure, you can lie and blow smoke up my skirt, so it’s important that your actions jive with your words. But I assume, until your actions betray you, that what you say is what you truly think and feel.
And the two words I want to hear most are “thanks” and “sorry.” Without those, I won’t let you close to me.
“Thanks” and “sorry” both say you notice and I matter. Is it possible to care about someone, to value someone, and never be grateful or remorseful? To never be appreciative or take responsibility for mistakes?
And this is where Becky disagrees with me. Yes, she says, being grateful and remorseful is essential to a healthy relationship. But, she says, it’s assuming far too much to think that remorse and gratitude don’t exist just because the words aren’t spoken. “Some of us,” she said,” just don’t say what we feel.” Huh, I thought. That’s a great point. “Sorry,” I said.
What do you think?
