The Waking is the Hardest Part

My phone started buzzing at 5:30 this morning.

As it always does.

That was followed by...

All aboard! HA HA HA HA HA HA! a'ight, a'ight, a'ight, a'ight (echo)

That’s the beginning of Crazy Train.

By Ozzy Osbourne.

My own personal ring tone.

The sound I wake up to every morning.

I set my alarm for 5:30.

So I can leave the house by 6.

And be on the elliptical machine by 6:30.

That’s the goal.

Every morning.

That’s the result.

Many mornings.

Some days are a little slower out of the block than others.

But the good news is I usually get the gym four or five mornings a week.

Actually, we get to the gym four or five mornings a week.

My 12-year-old son and I.

Now I consider myself a pretty good negotiator.

I credit it to my many years of playing fantasy sports.

But talking a 12-year-old boy into getting up at 5:30.

Four or five times a week.

To work out.

Now that's quite the challenge.

At first I just asked if he wanted to go.

Guess how that turned out.

Then I hinted that I thought it would be good for him.

Strike 2.

This is where it gets dicey.

One more strike and I’m out.

So instead of taking a risk, I went for the sure thing.

A sports analogy.

That’s what we do.

I asked him how many times Michael Phelps cursed at his mom when she woke him up at 4:00am to go to swim class.

For a brief moment I wondered if this was where he was going to throw a shoe at me.

Or if he was actually going to bite the hook.

Fortunately when I looked him deep in the eye, I could see the light.

The light from where the light bulb had gone on.

I knew I had him.

I told him that Michael probably cursed at her EVERY day.

Maybe even twice a day.

But she believed in his ability and recognized that he had the opportunity to be special.

And nothing was going to get in the way of that.

I told him I see the same thing in him.

That was a few months ago.

And for a few months we’ve been working out together.

Almost every day.

Not exactly P90X.

Not even p9x.

It’s a handful of weight machines.

Abs, delts, pecs, lats, traps, arms, legs.... whatever. 

Followed by a half-hour (or so) on the elliptical.

Ta-da.

We’ve got a workout.

Some days our workout qualifies as “something is better than nothing.”

Other days I actually break a sweat.

But everyday is great.

Me and my boy.

Just the two of us.

Building castles in the sky.

Just the two of us.

I’m not so sure I have a Michael Phelps on my hands.

But the fact that he is still going is a victory in itself.

And he seems to be sincerely enjoying himself.

Which is a bonus.

Not to mention he has mastered the face of looking like he is lifting 2500 pounds.

When it’s only 25.

I should know.

I invented that face.

While the results in the gym are certainly paying off, it’s the entire morning that is special for me. 

The discussions we have on the car ride to the gym are nothing short of perfect.

Sports.

Music.

School.

Food.

Whatever.

An uninterrupted conversation between a boy.

And his dad.

Take that Harry Chapin.

Sure, there has been more than a morning where there’s been no conversation at all.

I credit that to the pitch-dark departure.

But those rides are just as heavenly.

I split my time 50-50.

Between watching the road.

And watching my son sit next to me.

Sleeping.

Nothing more peaceful than that.

Nothing more perfect than that.

Who knew that working out could be so much fun.

Fable Of My Deconstruction

“If I could lift my leg right now, I’d kick your....”

Well you can guess the rest.

Those were my exact words for my personal trainer after yesterday’s 45-minute session of muscular masochistic misery.

Now before you think I’m hangin with the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

There is no MY personal trainer.

But what I do have is three free sessions with A personal trainer.

That came with my month-to-month membership at a local gym.

A membership that costs me $50/month.

And is worth every penny.

Especially when you get free stuff.

And the philosophy of this club is to give a free sample of extra attention.

So that I get addicted.

And then I will start paying to feed that addiction.

Hey, why not.

It works for drug dealers.

And it works for Costco. 

Of course, if they charged me even one of those pennies for a personal trainer, I probably would’ve passed.

But it was free.

And who can turn down free?

Not me.

So as part of this new personal training mission, they had me take a series of tests to determine my physical well being.

And to make sure I didn’t expire during an ab crunch.

The tests were quick.

And simple.

A little treadmill.

Pull on this weight.

Reach as far as you can.

Tada.

The results are in.

And congratulations Sir.

You have the body of a 44-year old.

Not bad.

I suppose.

Considering I am 43.

And will be 44 in a few months.

But honestly, I would’ve hoped for a little better.

I don’t feel a day over 41.

But wait, there’s more.

At no extra charge, you get a five-page analysis of the test results.

And with that analysis, comes a dangling carrot on the last page.

IF I can improve my “sit and reach flexibility” by 2.5 inches, I would improve my body age by two years.

And IF I  my can improve my body composition by 8%, I would improve my body age by five more years.

And IF I can improve my bicep strength by 14 pounds, I would improve my body age by two more years.

And IF I can improve my cardiovascular VO2 score from 39.7 ml/kg-min to 47 ml/kg-min.

Whatever that means.

I would improve my body age by three more years.

Ok.

44, minus two minus five minus two minus three.

Whoa.

So if I buy a couple of months of personal training sessions... 

...my body age will be like negative 16.

By April?

Where do I sign?

Well I signed on the computer that’s where I signed.

For the first of three free sessions.

What do I have to lose?

Except a couple of pounds.

And what’s left of my dignity.

My personal trainer showed up at noon, right on time.

He had less body fat than one of those Old Navy mannequins.

And he took me to a part of the gym that I’ve never seen before.

I knew immediately I was in trouble.

About 12 seconds in, I was sweating more than Mel Gibson at a Passover Seder.

This guy had me doing lunges.

And leg lifts.

Push ups.

And squats.

Plus he introduced me to a bunch of new places.

The Roman Chair.

The Russian Kettlebell.

The Bosu Balance Trainer.

By this point, I was praying this torture would take an immediate detour.

To The Dairy Queen.

But every step of the way, this guy was giving me all of the  encouragement any out of shape 43-year old could hope for.

“Come on you fat f***,  just 73 more.”

Ok, that may not be an exact quote. 

But when you are literally one exhale away from passing out, “just two more” sounds like 73.

He must’ve asked me 40 times if I needed water.

And I must’ve answered 40 times.

"Huh?   What?"

Finally after 45-minutes, which felt like 45 days, this mercifully came to an end.

I used what little strength I had left to shake the man’s hand.

A man who had just tried to kill me.

But he wasn't done there.

It was then he reminded me of the two sessions I had left.

The two FREE sessions I had left.

Free?

Who could pass up a deal like that?

Not me.

Round 2 is on Monday.

Type 2 Personality

A few weeks ago I was working out at the local gym.

Thankfully that’s not news.

With all that I eat, I try to work out every day.

Or at least every other day.

The news here came after I was done working out.

As I got out of the shower and headed back into the locker room, I noticed that a man was looking at me.

I was wearing nothing but a towel.

And he was wearing nothing but a towel.

Not that there is anything wrong with that.

As I got closer, he said, “I’m sorry for staring at you.”

“But you look just like this guy I went to college with.”

So I asked what college.

He answered my college.

I said that’s my college.

He said, “Are you......?”

I said, “I am.”

And with that, the reunion tour was officially underway.

Now I live a thousand miles from where I went to school.

And school was a million miles ago.

Graduated 20 years back.

22, to be exact.

So to run into somebody from the glory days.

That’s a long-shot.

And being recognized by somebody who hasn’t seen you since before Milli knew Vanilli.

That’s a miracle.

And in this miracle I looked exactly as I did two decades ago?

While wearing just a towel?

Now that’s a real miracle.

And a compliment.

My new friend/old friend told me that he still keeps in touch with a handful of people from the way back machine.

Including an old fraternity brother of mine.

In fact, he said that brother was coming to town in a few weeks.

Which was this week.

“And we should all get together.”

So we did what all the kids do these days.

Friended each other on Facebook.

Is “friended” really a word?

Well within a couple of pings, we had a lunch date.

So yesterday, we grabbed a table for three at a local burger joint.

Within moments, we exchanged pictures of the eight kids we helped bring into this world.

And then we bragged about the swim team.

And the fishing trip.

And the dance competition.

You know all the things that proud papas talk about.

That lasted about two minutes.

The other 98 minutes were spent talking about the golden days.

Well not all 98 minutes.

And not all talking.

I spent the first five minutes listening.

Listening to my fraternity brother tell me how his life changed.

A few years ago.

But this change didn’t involve religion.

Or alcohol.

Or a hot girl.

It involved a test.

And this was one test that you can’t cheat on.

Apparently he had a cholesterol level that was slightly above the norm.

But he took it very seriously.

So seriously that he went in for regular updates.

Ironically it was a test with a positive change that brought in a negative result.

Those results showed the good news about his cholesterol going down.

But the bad news that he had developed diabetes.

A shocking development.

Considering he had no family history of the disease.

And he was far from obese.

He was not exactly the ideal candidate.

But even with the odds in his favor, he had joined a growing list.

A list that won’t stop growing.

In fact a study released in October by the Center for Disease Control and Prevention said that by 2050, one in three adults may have diabetes.

Fortunately/Amazingly, I can’t think of any of my adult friends who are diabetic.

So I was very interested in learning more.

But I had to walk that tight-rope between being supportive.

And being nosy.

He immediately showed me the syringe that he takes everywhere with him.

And he said that he can still eat pretty much everything he wants.

As long as he adds the right amount of insulin to the menu.

It’s just part of his new diet.

And his new life.

And he seems really ok with it.

Which made me feel really ok with it.