This morning we await the birth of our second grandchild. I am home alone, and Bebe is at the hospital with my son-in-law and daughter. Aaron, who is now twenty one months old, is at home with his aunt Mandy. The sonigram says we are going to have a girl. We are not particular - They did a fine job with the first one. However, I raised two daughters and I recall the shift in my motivation for working out when I came to the realization that when they were old enough, boys would be coming to my house to see them. My son-in-law has some experience in the tactics used by fathers to dissuade suitors. He hung in there and that was one of the tests. I'm just glad I'm still around to pass on some of my knowledge to him if it is a little girl.
FORTY FIVE YEARS OF WORKING OUT
(It still has to do with testosterone)
“Drive, drive, drive!”
Words I still hear in nightmares where I run, but can’t get away. My legs ache as I lean into a seven man blocking sled and take hundreds of choppy steps. A coach is yelling. My thighs
burn in exhaustion. I create a deep hole in the sandy practice field. It stems from the memory of my first experience with being driven by testosterone to play a game with incredible physical demands just to impress the girls.
Not much changed through high school and college. It was a steady grind of unending exercise to stay at the top of the evolutionary chain.
As an adult, I began my career in law enforcement. I prepared with other male applicants to compete for available slots in the academy. This meant more time in the gym. After we secured our places with the department, we told ourselves we were working out to stay fit enough to stay ahead of the inmates who worked out everyday in the prison gyms. The truth was we wanted to look good.
At home, my wife and I became parents. My two beautiful girls rapidly became young ladies. Once I realized this, and remembered my youthful experiences, I returned to the gym with renewed vigor.
The young men who visited our home seem much larger physically than those I grew up with. I placed a weight bench in a highly visible area on our back patio, and loaded my weight bar with all of the weight I could afford. It was an impressive display, and even though I couldn’t lift it, it created just the right amount of doubt. I established myself as the dominant male in this territory. If all else failed, I still wore a large pistol under my suit coat.
I recently tried a kick-boxing class taught by a well toned young woman. I retired after the third session and told her I needed to get in better shape before I tried again. She told me that I didn’t have to do the entire workout. I informed her that I was a man and could not quit as long as my tortured body had life. She smiled and walked away shaking her head. I knew she didn’t understand the power of testosterone even in its diminished capacity. My new gym is just two blocks from the entrance to the emergency room.
(It still has to do with testosterone)
“Drive, drive, drive!”
Words I still hear in nightmares where I run, but can’t get away. My legs ache as I lean into a seven man blocking sled and take hundreds of choppy steps. A coach is yelling. My thighs
burn in exhaustion. I create a deep hole in the sandy practice field. It stems from the memory of my first experience with being driven by testosterone to play a game with incredible physical demands just to impress the girls.Not much changed through high school and college. It was a steady grind of unending exercise to stay at the top of the evolutionary chain.
As an adult, I began my career in law enforcement. I prepared with other male applicants to compete for available slots in the academy. This meant more time in the gym. After we secured our places with the department, we told ourselves we were working out to stay fit enough to stay ahead of the inmates who worked out everyday in the prison gyms. The truth was we wanted to look good.
At home, my wife and I became parents. My two beautiful girls rapidly became young ladies. Once I realized this, and remembered my youthful experiences, I returned to the gym with renewed vigor.
The young men who visited our home seem much larger physically than those I grew up with. I placed a weight bench in a highly visible area on our back patio, and loaded my weight bar with all of the weight I could afford. It was an impressive display, and even though I couldn’t lift it, it created just the right amount of doubt. I established myself as the dominant male in this territory. If all else failed, I still wore a large pistol under my suit coat.
I recently tried a kick-boxing class taught by a well toned young woman. I retired after the third session and told her I needed to get in better shape before I tried again. She told me that I didn’t have to do the entire workout. I informed her that I was a man and could not quit as long as my tortured body had life. She smiled and walked away shaking her head. I knew she didn’t understand the power of testosterone even in its diminished capacity. My new gym is just two blocks from the entrance to the emergency room.
