Part 2

It's merely a coincidence that I read the following yesterday, but the timing couldn't be better. (It's from Where Are You Now? by Mary Higgins Clark.)

At 12:15, he got up from his desk, went into his private bathroom, ran a comb through his sparse head of hair, and straightened his tie. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, he thought sardonically, who's the baldest of us all? Thirty-seven years old, in good shape, not bad-looking, but at the rate I'm going, by the time I'm fifty I'll be lucky if I have six hairs left on my head. He sighed and put away the comb. Jenny tells me that's part of the reason I've done so well, he told himself. She says I look ten years older than I am. Thanks, honey.

At least I don't have a "Jenny" in my life to slice my throat with a compliment.

There's mixed news on the rest of my body. I had my annual fitness check yesterday at the gym. My arms and calves are slightly bigger. My thighs and percent body fat are unchanged, but my chest is significantly larger. My weight is down 1/4 of a pound, but my waist is an inch bigger. What happened to all the weight I just lost? "You mean," I asked Gym Rat, "I gained and lost eight pounds in a year?"

A much more significant difference (mainly because we're comparing three or four years at once, not just one) is how much weight I am lifting. Just six weeks ago, when I started my previous exercise routine, Gym Rat began calculating how much weight I actually move during my exercises. (I haven't asked, but I think he multiplies the number of pounds by the number of repetitions then adds them all together.) Yesterday, he went back to my first tracking card and calculated that amount, as well. When I first started on the weights, I lifted 6,765 pounds per visit. Now I am up to 20,005 pounds!

There is a final, bright spot with which I can end this post. (I wish you were here to appreciate it with me.) Sub just arrived for work. What's the first thing I heard after he sat at his desk? The sound of an aluminum can of Mountain Dew being opened. He blames his more-than-generous girth on his wife's cooking. Yeah, right. How many cans does he drink a day? At least I will never get to be his size. Maybe I should rename him Mountain.

Okay, I can't end it there. (I really am not making this up.) I just did a web search of his name. I figured, since he's an excellent amateur golfer, I'd be able to find a reference to him, and maybe a picture to share with you, online. It turns out he has a pretty common name, but I was extremely amused to see the first three hits return as "Meal-a-minute", "Home of ALL the Fish You Can Eat", and "Menu" in San Antonio, TX.