I've been trying to squeeze in some time to blog for the last few days. I have no complaints. Life is going very well. Right now I am with my son after karate class and he is chilling with his Nintendo DS, so I am jotting down a few words here.
I am going straight from here to the gym for another little workout. I've been burning plenty of calories at the gym and doing some good work with weights, too. Enough so that my shoulder was a little tender last night -- I might have done a little more butterfly than I should have, or maybe it was snow shoveling. But I feel fine now, and I'll just do elliptical this evening.
Anyway, all is well, and the Big Man keeps Getting Smaller, even if some days the scale tells me nothing. I am okay with that. I really trust the arithmetic. The easiest part of this is knowing the arithmetic of calories. The hardest part is being humble enough to accept the fact that I have to write things down, keep track of every flippin' calorie, and be accountable.
Not that it is hard like war is hard or divorce is hard or prison is hard or scary surgery is hard. (My friend Lynn S. has surgery tomorrow, and I will be thinking of her).
But it is hard to be accountable to the regimen of the Big Man Getting Smaller, for me as it would be for a lot of people, because half the time you want to say: "I'm a grown man, why should I have to keep track of every flippin calorie? What's up with that?!"
Yeah, it would be easy to blow it off, to say I'm free, red, and 21, I can do what I want. It's true, I can do what I want. But what I want is to keep getting in better and better shape, to keep feeling younger and younger, to know that when my son is 17 and I am 65 I will not be using a flippin' walker. And this is the way I know to accomplish that.
It's easy to want to go another way. It's not like I don't have a lot of Big Dog in me. A lot of stupid Ramblin' Guy. A lot of middle-aged crazy who at any moment could try to affirm my vitality and deny my advancing years by, I dunno, buying a flippin' sports car and making a fool of myself with women half my age. But I'm happy with my Prius. I'm happy denying my advancing years by cutting back on beer and burritos and hitting it hard at the gym. And I'm happy making a fool of myself with women my own age or older.
With all the snow the past few days I have been wearing my old cowboy boots and jeans a lot and, what with all the weight I have lost and all these trips to the gym, well, what can I say ... I actually have started to feel like that inner Big Dog. I won't try to explain further. I enjoy it. Guy thing. It's okay, too, as long as I know my limitations.
Dan Seals - Everything That Glitters Is Not Gold
2 comments:
Hey I think I know that inner Big Dog feeling... should I be concerned?
Cowboy boots good in the snow? I'm aslippin and aslidin like a skater about to fall during the freestyle!
Donna
I think there are quite a few women -- especially those who have been mothers -- who know that inner Big Dog feeling. So you go, Girl!
Two things seem to make my boots work well in snow and ice. One is that they have e better tread than many cowboy boots. Second thing is that they have a nice weight distribution to them, heavy in the heels, which tends to arrange my posture well for avoiding slips.
After all, a Big Dog can't be light in the loafers! (Not that there's anything wrong with that).
Steve
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