So I’ve been sitting here staring at my computer for nearly an hour, trying to think of something to write about. It’s annoying, too. While stuck at work today, I had a dozen ideas for blog posts, and couldn’t wait to get home to throw down the wisdom for the world to admire. But now, all I can think about is the fact that the cat’s out of cat litter, Hannah needs school supplies, and that Breaking Bad’s season premiere Sunday night was AMAZING and I really should watch it again.
Dude, Walt is CRAZY.
But I made a decision that I wasn’t going to let this wander by the wayside again, so I’m here, typing, and still nothing. So I’m going to randomly pick some fitness/health topics and write about them. I’m sure it will be great. Or not. You could always go watch Breaking Bad.
Seriously, Walt really is crazy.
Pull-Up Watch 2013
Earlier in this blog, I discussed my desire to reach up, grab a metal bar, and haul my significantly slimmer self above in the performance of a pull-up. I carefully planned my exercise regime to develop the muscles that allow others to perform this nigh-unreachable feat, and followed it carefully. I stared balefully at the bar every time I passed it, knowing that deep inside, its reign of terror would soon be drawing to a close.
So about a month ago, I had just gotten out of the shower (if I was hosting a late night show, this would either be where the women in the audience chorused, “Whooo!”, or where my asshole of a stage manager turned on the laughter sign… not sure which), and for some reason, I walked up, grabbed the bar, and pulled. I don’t know what made me decide to do it. There honestly wasn’t a thought in my head that I’d reached the part where a proper pull-up was anything other than a fantasy. I just grabbed the bar.
As such, it was a fairly tremendous shock when my body rocketed skyward, I clipped my nose on the bar, and upon realizing that I was above the bar, was so stunned that I let go, whacked my chin on the way down, and turned my ankle.
As I lay naked, bruised, and slightly dizzy on the floor, I realized that somewhere in the last six months of peeling away the weight and actually using my muscles instead of watching them dwindle away to nothing, I had at some point passed being able to do a pull-up without even realizing it. I stood up, shook out the aches, pulled on some clothes, and hopped up to churn out three perfect pull-ups in a row.
When you make the decision to stop treating your body like a garbage chute, the changes you make in yourself will come faster than you can ever realize. They’ll sneak up on you. You’ll be jogging up the stairs and realize that sometime recently you stopped wheezing. Your knees will stop creaking like a haunted house. You won’t find yourself sitting on the toilet six times a day. You will be a better version of yourself.
No Guts, No Glory
So this is, at best, only tangentially related to the main theme of this blog. But tough. I’m going to write about it anyway and loosely tie it back to theme. Because I have writer’s block, and it’s my blog anyway.
Behold Becca Andrews. This unassuming young ginger has, over the last few years, become one of my closest friends. She has gotten drunk with Jen and I, played board games until far too late at night, and even spent one cold evening photographing nerds lined up for a video game release while I scribbled notes for an article. She’s family, and I love her dearly.
Last week, Becca moved to San Francisco after earning a rare coveted spot in the Berkeley Journalism graduate school program. She is a staggeringly brilliant journalist, and when she wins the first of her four Pulitzers, I’m going to be doing a spectacular “I Told You So” dance. But the fact is, moving to a strange city where you don’t know anyone is one of the more terrifying things that anyone can ever do. Our home is our safety net, full of places we can go to and people we can turn to when life rears up to crane-kick you right in the face. By leaving all of that behind, we accept that our future successes and failures are now ours and ours alone. It’s frightening, and Becca has jumped into that situation feet first.
It’s tough to admit that the place that we’re at is not the place we need to be. Most people shrug their shoulders and just decide that it’s easier to squat where we’re comfortable than to try something new, to venture into the roiling seas of uncertainty. But taking those risks are what make amazing things happen, whether it’s dropping a few pounds off your formerly expansive frame or cruising down the path to a Pulitzer.
Okay, that was a fairly weak attempt to tie that to the blog. But hell, can’t a guy just be damn proud of his friend? Besides, when she’s running the New York Times, you can point at her byline and say, “Hey, that once-fat dude mentioned her one time!”
Becca, I’m damn proud of you. Go kick all kinds of ass.
Okay, that’s all I’ve got this time. If you have any suggestions for post ideas, shoot them my way. Otherwise, you’ll get more stories about naked pull-ups, and no one wants that.
