shirtless

Years ago, I was hanging out with a group from the dojang. One of the few times I ever did, beyond the socially structured safety of the Minneapolis Academy of Hwa Rang Do. I don't remember the context that provided the comedic timing, but I remember that everyone laughed. "How do you know I don't use steroids?" I quipped.

Jason made a motion as if to close his thumb and forefinger around my bicep. I gave the green light to joke about it, but yeah. It was comically obvious that I didn't use steroids. Despite sweating my ass off year after year, it appeared I didn't even work out. It wasn't even clear that I ate regularly. My body doesn't produce growth hormone. It's difficult growing muscles without it. 

Bones, skin, cardio too, but muscular development can be the most apparent. Something we might become more psychologically fixated on, for obvious reasons. Just before the pandemic, after a tough class, a training partner made a comment that I was looking "swole." I'm pretty sure it wasn't even sarcasm. I'd never gotten a compliment like that before.

I get random compliments occasionally, now. About this aspect of myself that I was so insecure about my entire life. The compliments help a lot. That first compliment, that external acknowledgment of my progress, helped significantly in taking that initial leap into working out every day, when the pandemic hit. Confidence in the ability to progress can be an important part of motivation.

I struggle to put this into the context of being 47, but at least it's something to feel good about. I have pecs and abs like the comic book heroes I used to draw when I was a kid. At 47. I don't care if it's tacky. Jason died in a car accident a few years ago. He was a good person. Exceptionally so. Life is brutal, yet we can't help but worry about the dumbest shit.