Should you ever find yourself needing dirt, well, I know a guy. Saw a curious sign flanked by trees, as I drove back home yesterday, with “DIRT AVAILABLE” seared across its face, done real professional-like in bold font, with an actual phone number under the product offering. I’ve yet to call, but I imagine they take check, credit card, and possibly pine cone as well. I don’t know! I don’t know how the pine cone market has fared in this wretched economy.
But we’re here tonight to discuss an entirely different market, and before we parted ways we spoke about fitness. I should clarify I’m going nowhere near weights. There simply isn’t a reality in which I’d willingly choose to lift and drop heavy pieces of metal repeatedly. I’m not looking to get ripped. Fit is fine, and this same train of thought extends to what appeals to me. I’m not looking for smokin’. I mean, certainly there’s a minimum threshold of attractiveness–she’s got to have a full set of teeth, for instance–but extroverted and smart are the two things I absolutely need.
There’s something else that’s equally important as getting back into shape, I mentioned on Tuesday, and it’s far less tangible. In the past few months, I’ve plugged into the alumni association, church, and a marketing association with varying degrees of disappointment, all in service of a single question: “Which group is right for me?” It may be a valid inquiry, but what I really should be asking is this: “Why is it so difficult to connect?” I’m no longer sussing out the right community for me. There could be a local club of bloggers who maintain sites that are never to be mentioned in public, and I’d quit in two weeks flat. No, I’m trying to figure out why I’m communing. For me, there’s this sense of relief whenever a tie is severed. And yet, everywhere I look, there seems to be this fundamental need to connect.
You see it in bars, at church, during a marketing association meeting, online, even when paying for your stuff at a Target. I’m sure you’ve experienced this, where the person behind you complains under her breath about how the line is too long, and it’s expected that you commiserate. Total strangers, empathizing about the trivial. A woman did exactly this in a checkout line last week, and at first I withheld attention, then relented when I wondered if she was simply having a bad day. But just as I was turning around, she slammed, like, a 100-pack of Summer’s Eve wipes onto the checkout belt in a huff, and this little social conundrum instantly solved itself. It wasn’t the purchase itself, mind you. Hey, we all have our things. It was how the purchase intersected with her foul temperament. Some Venn diagrams are meant to be avoided.
So, the question. Movement on this front, unfortunately, can’t be measured by a scale, so it’s going to be a work in progress. I will keep you appraised of any revelations. You may be assured of it. In the mean time, I’m focusing on good health. It’s the straight and narrow for me. I went to a business outing a few hours ago and ordered a salad for dinner–a salad!–and I feel like a goddamned saint right now.
Setups may look convenient, even inviting on the surface, but beneath the gloss beats a cold truth: if the first date takes a wrong turn, goes south, it’s not just you, but the very architects of the setup who are culpable. The collateral damage here seems too great. When King Calm and Lady Cheerington described, in broad strokes, the person they had in mind, I was certainly intrigued. The facts, they said, were these: she’s in a band, has highlights, works as a barista on the side, is Caucasian, and–this would make one of us–likes Asians.
If only I had met her on my own accord, a month or so down the road. I say this because, suspect nature of setups aside, there are two things I must address before I put myself out there. I know what I need to do, obviously. But were I dropped into the market, say, right this minute, there would promptly be a product recall. The first order of business is to get back into shape. I don’t think is an unreasonable request, like asking for a pony, then asking the pony itself to assist me in exercise. And the second order of business? Well, you’ll just have to return here on Thursday, won’t you?
On the subject of health, I logged a solid four hours of tennis this weekend. The physical improvement is there, and there comes a point when it’s easier to ignore a cheesesteak for fear of scuttling your progress. The work is far from complete, however, at halfway from my target weight, or another two-thirds to go until I achieve the mystical “college weight.” But it is work I gladly do.
The company health screen today told a wretched story, where the fruits of my traditional aversion to sunlight and general movement came to bear. There were numbers, high numbers, and talk of pre-hypertension, followed by admonishments delivered by flabby people clutching medical apparatuses. It was like a parable in the making. But my final assessment score was real enough: 78. That’s a C+, which, contrary to academic custom, wasn’t helped at all by office hours.
The secret to a solid, sustainable health regimen, as any dietician will tell you, is a complete lifestyle change, a total overhaul of your fundamental beliefs about food and exercise, reinforced by small, rewarding milestones. Or some such shit. You may recall how I inaugurated my recent push for better vitals with a four-mile walk, and since then I’ve made significant progress in forgetting about the greenway. The path may have collapsed into a sinkhole, for all I know, and I will be left to forever wonder what it would be like to walk another four miles.
I’ve turned instead to some reliable staples these past few weeks: stress, forgetting to eat meals entirely, fistfuls of vitamin C drops, and tonight, nine evaporated pounds later, it feels like momentum’s finally on my side, rather than in my sides. There’s still a long ways to go, of course, and I’ve caught myself thinking a lot about fries lately. Cheddar fries. Chili fries. Waffle fries. Curly fries. Steak fries. Fries with barbeque sauce, garlic remoulade, or even fries left marinating in the leavings of other fries. But thinking it shall remain, because with a health screen right around the corner, one that may affect my insurance premiums down the road, I’d do well to remain on my best behavior.
What I have been working back into my existence–and doctors may even approve of this–is exercise. Nine golf clubs have been relegated to the closet, traded happily for one trusty tennis racquet. I clocked in two hours last Sunday, and I’m looking forward to a few more this weekend. I’m still trying to find my serve, which I suspect has atrophied under the weight of a hundred nachos, but there’s been progress. I remember why I like this part of the ritual–two nervous bounces, the quiet, then the sudden crack.
Even the grueling moments are strangely appealing. I’m still royally out of shape, winded within minutes, and yet there’s something about being a set and a half deep, arms heavy, legs on fire, and steeling myself to play another point. It’s the satisfaction of perseverance. That reminds me of a new phrase I learned last week. It’s a linguistic curio fresh from New York that’s simultaneously coarse and delicious, if only in a figurative sense.