New Year’s Day. I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, and I come to this unpleasant conclusion: My man boobs could use a training bra.
Yes, I plead guilty of exaggeration.
But if I get back in shape, it’ll impress her … maybe. However, I refuse to get sucked into the gym hustle and lose money, not weight. You show up for a few weeks, get bored, and stop because, well, because. You keep lying to yourself that you’ll return, but you don’t, and you end up paying for a few years. It’s worse than Hulu. I’ll exercise on my own. It’s almost spring, well, not quite, but there’s hope.
Photo courtesy NY Daily News
Unlike gyms, the local track is free and usually empty, especially in the early morning. There’s often a nice breeze coming off the Hudson River, and you can see clear across to Jersey. I play the Rocky theme in my head to psych myself up. In my baggy sweats, I look like Rocky Balboa on maternity leave. I tell myself that it’s my time and to put one foot in front of the other. I’m walking, but it feels like I’m doing more because I’m on an actual track. By the way, I’ve switched the soundtrack to Chariots of Fire. After a few laps, I graduate to jogging. This isn’t so bad. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Or is it the other way around? Everything’s going according to plan, assuming I’m breathing correctly.
But then it isn’t.
There are intruders. On the other end, off to the side, a half dozen tall, lanky, long-limbed high school girls are stretching. I’m calling them girls because that’s precisely what they are. Anyway, I was their age once. Then, I blinked. My time? It’s their time! It’s such a downer. I want to surrender, but I recall my almost-friend Christian’s pull-up performance on the scaffolding and can’t. If he can do that, I can at least walk around a track. Anyway, no more negativity. I will not surrender! Ever so gingerly, I pick up the pace. Before I know it, I’m running, slowly. It’s awesome. But the springy girls pass me seconds later.
And I take it personally.
Photo courtesy Star Press
I must fight, and I quicken my pace. But they pass me again…and then it gets worse. They sprint. They do a lap—maybe a tenth of a mile—and then walk a half a lap before sprinting again. Why are they trying to show me up? Can’t a man vanquish his man tits in peace?! Self-therapy time, again. You’re good, excellent, ladies. Indeed, the Olympics may be in your future, while Ozempic is probably in mine. However, until then, I still have some juice, well, hopefully.
When I go all in, half a lap separates us.
They sprint. I sprint. I cross the finish line without blacking out. Actually, surprisingly, I held my own. But there’s no celebration, and there’s no breeze, which I need because I’m perspiring profusely. The girls are walking, so I must too.
When we resume sprinting, I’m still breathing heavy. I do a little worse, but nothing to be ashamed of. I should be proud. I am proud. They’re tall, able-bodied kids in their prime. And I’m…let’s not go there.
As I walk, I continue self-therapy. Age is just a number! Size is a mindset! And then we’re off again. And this time, inexplicably, it feels different. I’m a deer in hunting season. And I’m alive, truly alive. Chariots of Fire. Real speed. An over-capacity crowd, which blocks the Jersey view, enthusiastically cheers me to the finish. Somehow, amid the hysteria, I spot her on the fringes, and I find another gear. I transform into a human locomotive, pistons full throttle.
I blast through the finish line tape, directly into Adrian’s waiting arms. We’re recreating Rocky’s final scene, the one in the ring.
“I love you!” she yells triumphantly.
“I love you,” I say back, tears streaming down my cheeks.
I’ll never be happier—ever.
When my eyes open, twelve youthful, female eyes are staring down at me. “He’s breathing!” one of the girls shouts. “How old do you think this dude is?” another asks. “Forty? Older?” someone asks. My eyes dart open. “Older?” I scowl. “You cannot be serious!”
John McEnroe has accomplished so, so much, but this phrase might be his most outstanding achievement.
“How old are you, sir?” asks the “over forty” girl.
I ignore her, push myself up, and limp away. My ankle’s hell, but I’m walking it off because I’m a warrior. Or, well, pretending. I should’ve thanked the girls for trying to help, but defeat sucks, and I’m bitter. If these girls hadn’t been here in the first place, none of this would’ve happened.
It’s all their fault that I haven’t made any progress on my man tits. Then I’m down, again, and the kids come to my rescue, again.
Bless ’em. They’re the good eggs. I’m rotten. My ankle’s an oversized tomato.
Two of the girls helped me up and escorted me home. I’m ashamed. It’s not my time.
__________
Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available illustrated by Coverkitchen
Lots of smiles