BahamaMan’s BodyBlog

I read a column recently lamenting the transition, in the last 20 years or so, to a situation in this country where parents have become servants to their kids.  I couldn’t agree more. 

Unlike parents in the not so distant past, who did not necessarily live to serve their kids, today’s parents are somehow made to feel like they are not doing their job if they don’t taxi Susie all over town/the state/the country in pursuit of Susie’s soccer dream; or like we are doing our kids a disservice if there is any “down time” in Johnny’s week or if Susie and Johnny aren’t involved in every damn thing that they want to be involved in.

It’s like we’ve become servants to our kids, and judging by the pudgeyness (and in many cases fat-assedness) of many of the servants, I mean parents, seen carting their kids from one activity to the other, this servitude is apparently a legitimate excuse for letting oneself go.  I mean who has time to exercise and eat right when Susie and Johnny schedules are so darn hectic, right?

To that I say, “Give me a f*cking break!”  And trying to be more constructive I ask, “Is becoming a slave to your kid(s) really doing your kid a favor?”

Aside from, in my opinion, the sick parenting example you are setting by letting your kids control you, think about how this approach to parenting gets in the way of you taking care of you.  First, you often don’t get the exercise you need because you don’t have time or are too tired (because Johnny is so busy).  Second, you don’t eat as healthy as you should for the same reasons (You eat McDonald’s on the road with Susie).  As a result you start packing on the pounds and have even less energy the further out of shape you get. 

You might rationalize this condition as the price to be paid for being a “good parent”, but dude/honey you are now in a full-fledged positive feedback loop, and that ain’t a good loop to be in.  The further out of shape you get, the worse you feel about yourself and this impacts your work, your relationship with your spouse, and your relationship with your kids, all of which tends to lead to getting even further out of shape.    

To use a dated fitness cliché, “Stop the insanity!”.  Seriously.  On what planet would an out-of-shape parent that doesn’t feel good about themselves, isn’t attractive to their spouse anymore, and couldn’t run around a soccer field if their life depended on it be considered a good parent.  And if you are fat-assed soccer parent, guess what your kid is likely to look like in about 20 years!  Yeah, real great parenting.  Oh, and way to significantly reduce the likelihood of being around to enjoy the grandkids.

For God’s sake, don’t use your kids as an excuse to be out of shape!  You are taking the path of least resistance and being a weak person if you are “that parent”.  There’s no denying it.

In my world, I’ve got me time and my kids know it.  “Don’t f!ck with daddy right now, kids.  He’s working out.”  And “Go to bed now kids, it’s time for daddy to do some “wrestling” with mommy”.  And “Daddy’s reading right now, kids. Go play in the street or something.”      

Oh yeah, in my world I actually so ‘no’ to my kids, too.  “No, honey we’re not stopping at Burger King just because you ran around the track a couple of times.  There’s plenty of healthy food at home.”  And, “No, you can’t do another activity.  If you want to add this one, you have to drop something else.”

In my world, I also do things outside with my kids; even make them work sometimes.  “Come on kids, help me in the garden.”  And “Come on kids, let’s go for a hike.”  (Notice that those are statements,  not questions.)

Does all this make me “Father of the Year”.  Not necessarily.  But I’ll tell you what I know.  At 43 I’m in the best shape of my life and able to run all over the soccer field and/or up and down the basketball court with my kids;  I’m healthy as a horse with the prospects of being able to run around with my grandkids; I’m still “wrestling” with wifey on a regular basis after almost 20 years of marriage; and my kids know I’m a hard-ass sometimes because I love them. 

I’ll take all that over the path of least resistance any day.  How about you?  Which path are you on?

            After the age of 21, and certainly after 30, I can think of very few reasons for men to be shirtless in public.  The exceptions include; the beach, a swimming pool, and a game of shirts vs. skins.  Other than those three, putting your bare back and chest on public display provides innocent bystanders with way too much information about you and your tan lines and should be avoided. 

            I realize that it’s tempting to “bare it” in public once you start dropping some of those LBs.  You know, make the fat dads your age hate you.  Heck, your lady might even be encouraging you to show-off the fruits of your labor.   

            Fight the temptation, please.  Save the all over upper body tanning for your backyard.

            Personally, I opt for a tank top or home-made sleeveless T when I’m going to be out-and-about and my armies are going to need breathing room.  The tank top/sleeveless T puts the guns on full display, highlight the shoulders, and provide provocative hints at what lay beneath.  When sporting a revealing top however, YOU HAVE TO KEEP THE NIPPLES COVERED.  I think it’s a law in some states and no one, other than your lady, really needs to see your nipples anyway.

            IF you absolutely can’t fight the urge to commit PDC (public display of chest), HEAR MY PLEA.  Before pealing off your Hanes, ask yourself the following questions:  1) Do I have man boobs?  2) How about caveman back?  3) Michellan Man rolls?  You might even want to consider getting a second opinion if you have any doubts about your objectivity.

            Needless to say, if the answer to any of those questions is yes, YOU’VE GOT TO STAY COVERED UP, given that exposure to man boobs, caveman back, or Michellan Man rolls has been known to mentally scar young children.  

            If you have been Bareback-in-the-Park Guy, first, take a solemn oath not to be that guy ever again.  Second, don’t feel too bad.  I’ve been Shirt-off-at-the-Party Guy; an even greater offense.    

            I vividly remember this guy from college that workout in the school’s little weight room.  He was in a fraternity (TKE) like me (FIJI), but he was a senior when I was a freshman. 

            Anyway, TKE was all about the upper body.  The first time I saw him it was winter and he was in a wife-beater T and sweat pants pumping out sets of bicep curls on a Friday afternoon.  On other days it was shoulders or chest, or back (but never legs).

            After completing a set, TKE would stand in front of the mirror and check out his massiveness.  But he never hit traditional poses like front-double bi or side chest.  Instead, he’d stand, left or right side facing the mirror, raise his arm like he was about to take a drink from a long-neck beer bottle, and flex.  Apparently, that was the look that TKE was trying to perfect.

            One spring day TKE came into the weight room sporting his customary wife-beater, but this time he was in shorts.  I give him credit for having the guts to reveal his toothpicks, I mean legs.  They looked like they belonged on a 13 year old girl.  “Could this be the day he works legs?”, I wondered.  But, he walked over to the dumbbells and started working his arms. (It must have been Friday.)

            I’ve seen a lot of TKEs over the years in gyms.  They are often in groups and I think of them collectively as frat-boy mirror hogs (FBMHs). They spend most of their time in front of the mirrors, spend most of their time working arms, and are most abundant on Friday afternoons.   

            FBMHs often wear home-made sleeveless t-shirts with some kind of greek theme (you know, “Homecoming Bash 2005”), and of course, they’re almost always in sweats (few are as brave as TKE).  It’s important to note however, that this group is not limited to 18-21 year olds.  I’ve often seen groups of FBMHs with an average age of 30+ (their sleeveless T’s often say things like “Homecoming Bash 1995” with the occasional “Homecoming Bash 1985”).

            Aside from attire, you can ID a FBMH by the way he yells at his bud(s) to complete the last rep of the 10^th set of preacher curls.  He will also usually refer to his arms as “guns”.  And, if you are still in doubt, watch for that beer drinking arm pose that TKE used to hit.  All FBMHs hit that pose.

            When encountering FBMHs in the gym, I avoid the mirror-area until they’re done because if I get too close I might crack on their toothpicks, I mean legs.  And that wouldn’t be nice. 

            If you are a FBMH, please consider working legs.  Sure, their current punyness may accentuate your massive upper body, but someday you might want to impress a girl that likes big legs.  Then what are you going to do?!

            HONK if you know a FBMH!          

I was buff as hell at 19 and I’m buff as hell again at 40 plus, but in between there were some pudgy years.  I offer my story (the short version) as motivation to 30-somethings contemplating the realisticness of reclaiming/exceeding their former best version of themselves.

So, at 19, when I realized I wasn’t going to be the next Arnold, I decided to get serious about school.  For me that meant starting down a path that eventually led to a PhD in ecology.  Fitness-wise that path was relatively smooth while I was in school.  I mean thru my 20s and into my 30s I had more time and opportunity to work out and a more active lifestyle than most guys my age.  Oh, there were some dips into pre-pudginess during those years, but I was always conscious of those slides and pulling things back to fit was pretty easy. 

Then at about 33, I got a real job (of sorts) and started spending a lot of time behind a desk.  I started to, shall we say, marble.  There aren’t many pictures of me from 33-38 that I like, for sure.  I mean my body is not very photogenic to begin with (narrow shoulders and thick waist) so add 10-20 extra lbs and it ain’t pretty.  The decline was insidious to be sure…slow marbling.  My body weight didn’t actually change.  I was holding steady at about 200, but my percent body fat was climbing.  Hey, it happens to the best of us.  Can you relate?

Anway, at about 38 I was close enough to 40 to dust off a promise that I had made to myself; specifically, I had been saying for years that I would compete in bodybuilding again when I turned 40.  So, I started back into the iron game s-l-o-w-l-y.  I look at my workout journal entries from back then and I’m amazed at just how easy-does-it I did take it. 

I also started reading books (something I didn’t do as a teen) because I wasn’t even sure I could still build muscle at 38.  Thankfully, the news was good, great actually!  Heck, the research shows that dudes in their 70s and 80s can still build muscle.  And I also came to realize that most of what was in the magazines about how to build muscle was crap and misinformation. 

My motto pretty much became, “This sh&T ain’t rocket science.”  I plugged away in my simple basement gym, ate healthy food, got lots of rest and lo and behold my body started to transform!

Sure there were some bumps along the way.  Early on I had to figure out how to fix some degenerative disk-related low back pain (stretching, stretching, stretching) and then I had to deal with several months of AC joint pain (pretty much cleared up on its own).  But I kept training smart, never fell off the fitness wagon, and in less than two years I was on stage, killing it in my banana hammock and looking dayum good.

Now, several years later I am pretty much on cruise control.  Instead of marbling, I’m like a fine wine getting better with age. 

Moral of the story of course is that YOU CAN DO THIS TRANSFORMATION THING.  Don’t make excuses.  Just do it!

I try not to be a regurgitator of tired advice on these blogs.  I also choose not to update folks on my “progress” or provide details of my workouts.  Rather, I try to be original with my takes, make people laugh and perhaps make folks occasionally go, “Hmmm”. 

Having said that, some of the stuff that I read in the mags makes me go “Hmmm” and I’m thinking “What the hell.  Might as well pass this stuff along.”  

Enter Dave Draper, the blond bomber.  Now, I’m no bodybuilding historian or anything, so I’m not going to wax poetic about how great of an old school physique Draper had.  But, at what must be 60 something the dude is still got the passion for the iron and I think that’s cool.  In addition, the dude is articulate.  Which I really admire.

In his column, in the March issue of Ironman Draper lays it out like this:

“…the game we play, the road we travel, the voyage we’re on is a good one.  It’s also, at times, very hard and frustrating.  Like every worthy endeavor, it’s fulfilling, rewarding and beneficial.  But it gets old, inconvenient and tedious.  It hurts and gets lonely every now and then.  Sometimes we quit, and when we quit, slowly but surely we fall apart.  We have more time but less strength.  We sleep later but have less energy.  We have Sunday brunch at the Chaminade (where?), but we become fleshy.  Frustration is replaced by guilt, and we suddenly miss the frustration.  The easy chair is soft, yet we miss the hard bench and the hard push… “

He concludes by asking the rhetorical question, “Don’t you just love to lift weights and build muscle and hear the clank of iron against iron?”

I mean doesn’t that just make you want to drop whatever you’re doing and go pound the piss out of some bodypart?! 

I mean, doesn’t it?! (Feel free to shout “Hell yeah!)

Well then, what are you waiting for?!

            I remember when the first woman ventured into my old home gym, the now defunct Belleville Weightlifting Club, back in the early 1980’s.  At least, I think I remember when that happened.  I guess it’s possible that the story was already a legend by the time my 14-year-old wide-eyed self showed up and was just related to me by one of the gym sages.  Anyway, the woman was a one-and-done, so the story goes, turned off by the crudeness of the place and the sages.

            Don’t get me wrong.  I love women in the gym.  But, there was stuff that used to happen in the weight room, before there were women, that just doesn’t happen anymore.  Atomic farts, for example, dropped with pride and scored by other gym members.  Or, someone exclaiming that the last time someone got a piece of (arse) was when his finger broke thru the toilet paper.  Or, those 2.5 lb plates that were dropped on my 16-year-old crotch while I benched (with the stated intention being to build mental toughness).

            Did this kind of stuff just happen in my old gym, or was it universal?  Does this type of stuff still go on?  Do the women at Curves rip sinus tingling farts and crack on each other?  Is it against the rules to even rip farts at Gold’s Gyms?

            Anyway, when I went away to college, I graduated to a gym with women; mostly aerobicizing women.  Memorably, the aerobics classes were taught at the front of the gym with the all the mostly female rears facing 20-year-old me.  I still remember a cute blonde that used to arrive late to most classes and take up a position in the back row. 

            I also remember the first female bodybuilder I ever knew.  Her name was Kim, we went to college together, and we both worked out at the above-mentioned gym.  Kim looked like Rachel McLish and believe me it was a pleasure to watch her train.  But in her presence you just couldn’t tell a guy to suck your (pee-pee) when he cracked on your calves.  A nice guy just doesn’t do that.

            I want to make it clear that I’m not anti-women in the weight room.  Far from it.  I love women with muscles.  I think Rachel McLish was one of the sexiest women on the planet and I’d pay extra to workout in the same gym as some of the figure pros.

            I guess what I’m lamenting is that gyms are much less a coming of age experience for wide-eyed teens than they used to be.  Way too sanitized.  Way too PC.  Way too fu-fu.  

            For better or for worse, the old, admittedly crude Belleville Weightlifting Club gave me insights into what men were like when they were around other men.  You don’t get this at Gold’s “gym” where the few guys actually lifting weights are more likely to be Under Armor Guy or Frat-Boy Mirror Hogs than powerlifters and Night-Shift-at-the-Factory Guy.

            I guess I kinda want to blame women for “gyms” with smoothie bars and mostly cardio equipment, but then again, on any given night, in countless “gyms” across the country, there are as many guys walking, climbing, stair-stepping, and cycling, as there are women.   And the cardio boys are just as likely to complain that you didn’t “wipe-up after yourself” as any of the women.

            Maybe I’m just getting old and am recalling with too much nostalgia my old gym and all my old gym-mates.  (Upon further review, I seem to remember a couple of those 2.5 pound plate drops kinda hurting.) But man, I don’t know, to this day the whiff of smelling salts (or an atomic fart) takes me right back there. 

            And that’s not a bad thing!

This is a blog about motivation.  Or maybe more accurately lack of motivation.  Or maybe really about the difference between motivation and commitment.  Actually, it’s probably really a Public Service Announcement about how a trainer/spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend can’t will a client/spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend to get fit.  In other words, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink!  I think wrapping your brain around this fact will help a lot of folks (guys) avoid any more nights on the couch than necessary.

Here’s my for example: My wife has a kickin body that has slowly started to, shall we say, marble, especially over the last five years or so.  She’s far from far too gone, but approaching the point where turning the ship is going to take a lot of work.   

She is not oblivious to her changing condition and pronounces at frequent intervals that she is going to make the effort to regain her student body.  Problem is she consistently makes breaks most of the rules in the “how to get get back in shape” book and oh how she doth protest when I try to help. (Read: Mike sleeping on the couch.) The irony of the situation suggests to me the image of someone dying of thirst while laying on the bank of a crystal-clear spring.  I mean hello.  You’re husband is a personal trainer!  I trust I’m not alone here.

One of the things that I think I’ve finally figured out is that my lovely wife has to commit to regaining her student body (duh, Mike.  Oh well, I’m kinda slow)  And so it goes with anyone who claims that they want to get fit.  Everyone is motivated (at least on New Year’s Eve), but few are committed.

I read the moment when folks transition from motivated to change to committed to change described as a “trigger moment”.  I think a lot about how true that is.  I mean any transformation testimony includes a detailed description of when and where the trigger moments occurred.  And unfortunately, most trigger moments don’t happen at 20 or 30 pounds over goal weight.  Rather it’s when folks are almost too far gone.

So, trainer/spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend trying to get your client/spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend to drink, don’t give up.  But also realize that it’s not your fault if they’re not thirsty enough yet to start lapping up that crystal-clear fitness water that you are offering.  And be prepared to jump into action when they finally have their trigger moment.