Thursday, December 18, 2014

Whichever muscle groups traditionally power these bloggin’ arms, well, they’re barely functioning tonight. That’s because I just returned from session two of weight training with the Professor, during which I pushed parts of my arms and chest I didn’t even know existed to the limit. I’m going to feel it tomorrow morning for sure. Hell, I feel it now, and typing is about as far away from lifting as you can get on the physicality spectrum.

The last time I did any sort of strength training was in–what, high school? And aside from an odd set of push-ups here and there, my Texan health regimen has been largely cardio. That’s why I decided to embark on this journey: to round out my routine and, perhaps in so doing, unlock the wherewithal to wail on a tennis ball really, really hard.

There’s also this core idea of how the very last few reps–the ones that feel damn near impossible to finish–are the ones that matter most. They’re the ones most responsible for breaking down your old tissue and paving the way for the new. There’s just something about the contours of this concept that’s fascinating to me. It feels like it’d be useful in some non-workout context, and not for some feel-good, bullshit Werther’s moment about perseverance, either.

We’ll see how long I can keep this going. For now, I’ve got something else on my mind, and that’s Saturday. I’ve been talking about this “no expectations” truism, but that’s only part of the story, because if you take this approach too far, you run the risk of being a milquetoast sop, twisting in the wind, and that’s wholly unattractive. There’s a balance to be struck, specifically by the heart, and that’s one muscle I’d like to keep intact, even as I seek to destroy all others.