Robert Brockway
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I'm going to talk about running. Feel free to click away. I certainly would have, two months ago. Running, jogging, exercising or indeed, physical movement in general were all things that I had absolutely no interest in. The only way I was running anywhere was if there was a lion behind me and an ice cream truck in front of me. But cut to about six weeks later, and now I'm running three times a week, and wishing it could be more. I'm still terrible at it, mind you -- it's like watching a fat bird trying to escape the tyranny of its own legs -- but I'm goddamn doing it, and there's nobody more surprised by that fact than me. And all because I realized four stupidly simple things:
I'd always thought of exercise as an all or nothing affair. Either you do it, or you don't. If you can't run for an hour, you don't go running. There's no point to it. If you can't do 50 sit-ups, it's not going to do you any good to do 20, so don't bother. I know that idea is, to put it politely, so retarded that it gets special paychecks from the government three times a year, but there are a lot of people operating under the same assumption, even if they don't consciously realize it. And like all things -- from the decline of our economy to cheese being
"STOP BOOING! OH GOD, I DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW THIS IS HELPING MY EDUCATION."
I couldn't do s**t as a chubby kid, but that didn't matter to the merciless god of Physical Education: Everybody climbed the same rope, played the same dodgeball and ran the same mile. There was no tiered difficulty system. Either you can do it, or you can't.
Sound familiar?
It was a fucked, apathetic system: The kids with superior genetics and shoe-money were put right up there against the tubby kid with the cereal bowl-cut, and there was no handicap depending on how much you liked sandwiches and hated baseball. And don't say it wasn't a competition, because
"Can I call you oven mitts? Cause you got some hot man-tits there. Yeah, I actually turned around and came back to school for that one."
Then my wife decided to start running. She said that she knew it was going to take her a while to get in shape for it,
And what the merciless f**k?
Even once the awkward typhoon of puberty passed me by and I dropped all the weight, the damage was done: Exercise was forever cemented in my mind as "that weird thing pretty people do with their limbs sometimes."
As somebody that, strictly speaking, does not do "body things," I've always felt it unseemly for a man to be seen in public in anything less than jeans and a T-shirt. I'm like a G.I. Joe action figure: You can add all the peripherals and accessories you want, but if you ever want less than the base uniform, you've got to find a belt sander and an emergency reserve of patience. I do not wear shorts, I do not wear tank tops and I most certainly do not wear "workout clothes."
As such, I was absolutely floored when I finally bit the bullet and first donned some jogging pants, shoes, socks and a T-shirt. My first thought was: Holy s**t, is this how human bodies are meant to move? Suddenly I realized that normal clothes are f*****g
"I'M GONNA BREAK. I'M GONNA BREAK MY. I'M GONNA BREAK MY RUSTED CAAAAAAGE."
For years I'd been getting Harrison Bergeron'ed up in this b***h, and now, out of uniform, I was discovering whole new ranges of movement: Legs capable of extending beyond 15 degrees, feet that practically bounce off the pavement, and holy s**t, have you ever felt running socks?
The first time I put on running clothes, huge swathes of the world finally began to make sense. For instance, if you had asked me two months ago for a perfect uniform, suitable for all occasions, I would've said "jeans and a T-shirt." Ask me that same question today -- what's a uniform that's good for everything, whether it's dancing to s****y techno music, walking your trophy mistress' Maltese or stabbing a Ukrainian in an alleyway -- and I will tell you without hesitation: "Track pants, running shoes and a T-shirt."
And that's why every Russian looks like that.
I know! I assumed they were full of s**t too: All that bull about "runner's highs" and "euphoria" and "exercise actually giving you
Yes, I was wrong: That "runner's high" stuff actually is a thing. And man, it better be, because the first few minutes of a run are f*****g awful. At first, the wife and I only did one minute runs followed by three minute recovery periods (again, we were really,
"Forty seconds? You lying Timex whoreson! It's been like four hours!"
But if you make it through the first couple of minutes, everything starts to turn around: Time and scenery both fly by, and the chirp of the stopwatch transforms from the howling torment of an antagonistic harpy into an adorable squeak that you could kind of ignore, actually, if you want to keep going for a bit. Runner's high sounds like total bullshit, I know, but you'll flip from raging torment to contented affection within a span of minutes, for no discernible reason.
If that still doesn't make sense, here's an analogy that helped me understand it: It's like when the Whiskey Fury first takes you. Yes, you're going to howl and scream obscenities so loudly that your throat will bleed, and you're probably going to hurt some people you love, but if you ride it out long enough, the Percocet Cuddles will kick in and the rest of Christmas dinner will go swimmingly.
It's weird to talk about this. It's not a secret or a source of shame or anything; it's just something I don't bring up often. But I have a medical condition: It's all a little fuzzy and still in the diagnosis stage even now, years after that first doctor's appointment, but the long and short of it is that I have (and probably have had for most of my life) hypothyroidism. It's not fatal or debilitating or anything but, amongst other things, it makes gaining weight a little easier, and losing it damn near impossible. It also makes exercising harder and a hell of a lot less productive. This running stint is not the first time I've tried getting in shape. Before the diagnosis, I kept thinking that I was just lazy or impatient. I would get it in my head to fix that every few months, and vow to start a new regimen, but I would never see any results. No muscles would build. Twenty push-ups would remain exactly as difficult as the first time, even if I did it every day for months. But now the drugs are starting to kick in, and I finally, finally get it. I know what you Exercise People see in this. But I'm going to phrase it in the most awkward, nerdy and embarrassing way that I can think of, so as to make you feel as bad about yourselves as possible:
You're leveling up your bodies.
"Excelsior!" -- You, enjoying exercising.
Holy s**t, I understand that now. As an RPG geek from way back in the day, I know that nothing in life is more intrinsically satisfying than leveling. But that's always a feeling I've had to get from video or board games exclusively, because this stupid body of mine apparently needed drugs to work this whole time.*
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