If you’ve never exercised with a flirtatious seventy year-old woman at 8:30 in the morning I highly recommend the experience.
Camilla, I’ll call her, walked beside me on a treadmill for twenty minutes lamenting the absence of a television in the room. “I’m missing Good Morning America for this,” she gasped. The two of us moved our equally spindly legs back and forth in near silence, the only sounds the thud of our feet, her heavy breathing and an occasional compliment. “You’re sprinting over there,” she wheezed and I smiled back. “You’re not doing too badly yourself.”
By the looks of her she must have been up early getting ready for us. Gold earrings. Gold watch. Gold bracelet. Auburn hair perfectly teased into a bell shape. Lipstick seeping out into the wrinkles around her mouth. Rouge in great circles on her cheeks as if painted on by a toddler with a brush made for staining large pieces of furniture, maybe one needing a makeover before being brought out of storage and made useful again in the living room. Camilla put herself together well. Beautiful.
I imagined how I might wear by her age, my hair white or gone altogether, joints stiff and sleep intermittent, names of acquaintances and witty comebacks too slippery for my mind to grip easily. “It’s hard for me to sit down and stand up sometimes,” Camilla explained on the way from the treadmill to the rack of barbells in the next room. “Oh, you’re just showing off now,” she laughed as I picked my weight from the pack. “Or I’m just too ambitious, we’ll see how this works out for me,” I said and we took our places before our instructor.
Her muscled thighs and tight arms bent perfectly as she commanded them. Her black hair pulled back into a pony tail. Her back straight. Her sparse make-up staying in the lines, hugging her features. Her voice smooth and patient. “You’re doing so well, Camilla,” she cooed and I wondered if I’d believe her if I were seventy and my triceps, then the size of petite rubber bands, were refusing to flex enough to lower and lift my body even a full inch. I’d sure want to believe it.
Camilla hung in there. I watched her in the mirror as she strained and willed herself to complete the smallest tasks. Bending over, like she once did when tying her child’s shoe. Reaching above her head, like she once did when stacking sheets in a closet. Sitting up, like she once did every morning before heading to the kitchen and getting started on breakfast for her family.
Yesterday I wrote an article about Steve for Worship Leader Magazine‘s “youth issue” to be released in a couple months. During the first Gulf War my father, a reservist retired from the military, went back on active duty as an instructor. He lived in another city a few hours away from us for a year. I was in high school and already hated myself and my school and our town and life in general - and I’m not entirely sure, looking back on it all now, why. I do remember feeling constantly torn between being myself and being who I thought everyone else would love much more. On top of this I was very dramatic, writing poetry and sulking around, and throwing little tantrums here and there, very Kurt Cobain. It’s a wonder any of us survive adolescence isn’t it?
Steve opened his home to me and my friends in those days. He was my Sunday school teacher. He fed us pizza every Sunday night after church. He asked us questions and then really listened to the answers. We talked about girls and parents and our dreams. Nothing was too stupid to say out loud. Nothing was too trivial to be fretted over. Most of all, Steve noticed me when it seemed very few people did, when I felt very alone. And it changed me for the better forever.
Mr. Godin writes about the super among us…
As far as I can tell, there’s no demographic formula for determining who will make a difference. It doesn’t seem to matter where you were born, how much money your parents made or where you went to college. Sure, a head start in those areas makes it more likely that you’ll end up in a position of leverage. But it seems as though that isn’t enough.
Superheroes don’t have a look, but they definitely have an attitude. They’re restless and impatient, but, here’s the cool paradox, they’re also calm and patient. Patient because they realize that change takes a while. Patient because they understand that if it’s worth doing, it’s worth getting through the Dip. Impatient and restless, though, because they refuse to accept the status quo. Most of the time, of course, these can’t co-exist. Most of the time, the impatient flit. They don’t stick it out.
The more superheroes we can find, the better. If you know one, celebrate them!
Who made a difference for you/in you? Have you told them?
I’m a husband. Part of my job is guarding my wife’s self-esteem against the slings and arrows of popular PhotoShopped culture.
Skeletons with hair extensions and breast implants posing on magazine covers in the check-out line at Kroger. Movie stars and rock stars in tight jeans, small shirts, blown up and smiling their perfect white smiles on big screens. And my own children, seeing their mother’s legs for the first time this Summer at a swimming pool.
“Look at ‘em, Gresham!” Gabriella shouted. “She’s white like...like the Snow Queen!”
At least I turned away when I laughed.
As of a few seconds ago, it’s official, I’ll be on tour for ten days in December with Cindy Morgan, Travis Cottrell and as yet unnamed others.
It’s a Christmas tour heading to large churches (large to me, anyway) of 1,000 seats (more maybe?). I’m hazy on the details still. I’m mostly coming along as the speaker guy, to talk about Compassion, but I’ll do a little strumming and singing too I guess.
Now, you can’t book this tour for free. There’s a band to pay and lights and a big time sound guy and all his stuff and then there’s Travis’ hair product budget and Cindy’s massage therapist and my personal trainer and, well, you get the idea. I’m joking of course, but seriously, if you’re seriously interested in booking this tour you can get in touch with The Breen Agency for details.
