The Three Stages of Me

No. 6 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Sorry to immediately personalize the chart, but “Been There, Done That...” I started off the proverbial 98-pound weakling, grew into a fitter specimen, then hit the magical status of 100%. And what a moment it was. I tossed confetti till noon. Then ate a cow. For a while I even thought that was as good as it got, then I heard about 150% and 200% also being actual numbers and went for it. And it wasn’t really hard; if you can hit 100% everything beyond that's a piece of cake.

Because you can go from Scrawny directly to Brawny, I put those together in one panel. But most guys, let’s call them Average Man, get fed up with what can become a constant struggle when they’re around 57% fit, and start thinking, “If I get to 60% that’s good enough, my goal's average, I'll slip into the middle of the pack. And it’s true, you can, which is why it's called Average.

It’s only the few — small guys like me and guys much larger — who say, No, I’m going for 100%, then the sky’s the limit. I won't be held down by gravity! I will soar into the skies of fitness, physically, mentally, psychologically, with stamina to spare, brawniness to boot, in every way tough, tougher, and toughest. Shoe leather's got nothing on me. Nothing can hold me down. I shall not be bound.

And I won't be musclebound either, one of these guys so thick in muscles and head they put you in tire commercials. Instead, I'll be smart and wise, with a mind like a computer that’s reliable and doesn’t have to be continually rebooted with updates and still shows unknown errors. People talk to me and I respond by squeaking and clicking as I perform calculations and spit out answers: "Mr. Knowledge, what is the secret of everlasting life?" Answer: If you're smart enough to ask, you're smart enough to know.

I say the secret of everlasting life is Vigor Vivus and kicking ass. But you can be stuck in its opposite, Rigor Mortis, while in the best of health. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking, another Vigor Vivus message from Mr. Know-it-All. Please spare me! OK, but I've seen enough guys sink away and vanish; you may as well survive. Because it's true, Vigor Vivus is the spirit of life, that we're born with but fritter away by our lack of attention to the inner slob.

And Rigor Mortis is its constant counterpart. You settle for Rigor Mortis, pretty soon you think that's all there is; you’re hard as a rock, then softened like chaff, till that disintegrates and you’re a pile of dust. Whereas Vigor Vivus, when that’s your spirit, you puff out in confidence, you bulk up mentally/spiritually, you're a multidimensional success, and finally you hulk out and reign over all enemies. Just be careful, though, when you "arrive," because delusions come in pretty packages.

There’s only one thing about hulking out and reigning I don’t like: so often I have to do it alone, which is lonely. I was out with some other poor guys in the Big City, looking for cans. I had about a 12-pack box full, and another guy had a Hefty sack full. But he had Rigor Mortis like you wouldn't believe, sadly making him the poorest man in town. He died under the bridge, leaving me great memories and about 65 cans.

Bad news for that guy, but his piss-poor end is great news for you, what you can avoid. This blog is open to all. But if you never felt welcome, that was your own psyche excluding you. Even before I plastered the place with thermometers, you were welcome. The thermometer drive is meant to put all misconceptions in the past. We are explicitly telling you, You are welcome, whether you’re 60, 100, or more in percent. Hell, if you’re 30%, 20, 10, 5, get with it. If you’re literally a pile of dust looking for the next hint of a breeze, as long as you are at least a few specks of dust with some semblance of coherence, that's better than nothing. You can reach out and we promise to keep the breeze down where you are. And whisper to you occasionally, "You still there? Come on, Dusty, start clumping."

We’re forever discussing the issues that can help you. Whether it’s bettering your best (obviously one of my personal favorites) or having at least something and adding a few more specks to your collection of dust with the hope that you'll build and grow, advancing perhaps to a leg, an arm, anything beyond the little you are now, we're here for you.

Even the Police Can't Take My Walk Away

What a great day! Finally, I didn't put it off any longer, I took a serious walk. All of a sudden I've been having this weird pain in my knees, and I'm thinking, Oh no! because I've known plenty of people who've had knee replacements. I've been sitting a lot and not walking, and now I know, I have to get out there now ... not later. The whole theme of my walk today was "Use It or Lose It."

Like I said, it was a very serious walk. Serious time, serious distance. I was watching my step, even meditating, and I truly was as focused as I've ever been. My earbuds and iPod were in my pocket the whole time, turned off. Instead, I listened to the birds, watched butterflies, checked out the various rocks, tree roots, and other things down at the lake. I vow, this was the first of many walks to come! In fact yesterday was a prologue to it, as I walked downtown, then around the square a few times and up and down a few alleys.

This morning, in the happiness of the whole thing, walking along joyously, I kept thinking, "No one can take this away from me!" Not the weather, even if it turns off bad afterwards; the weather can't take it away. Nothing can. Then I thought, even the police can't take it away! The police. They could come in right now and arrest me for something -- some trumped up charge -- but they can't take away my walk! Isn't that great...

It'd be interesting, though, to have the police try to take my walk away. They're like all up in my face, "You didn't take a walk at all, least of all a power walk, as we heard one other guy call his." Then I'm like, "I didn't call it a power walk." "No, but you implied that's what it was. Just like the other guy did." At this point, as you can see, they're trying to egg me into an argument -- Are they lying? Was there another guy? -- then they slam me against a tree, hoping I'll erupt violently.

But the thing about police, as I know better than anyone, being the King of Group Dynamics, is you can easily finesse them. Because something a lot of people don't know is that the police are totally swayed by body language. In fact, they're trained to key in on only a minimum number of cues. (Full disclosure: Because of my reputation in the field of group dynamics, I once served on a police commission.)

The No. 1 and No. 2 cues they look for are in your face and hands:

The face shows emotions. Do not sneer, control your face in every way. Lips not completely closed, but don't show teeth. Eyebrows relaxed. Nostrils still; if your nostrils flare out because of a bullheaded nature, you can kiss it goodbye. If I were stopped by the police, I'd simply center myself on the thought of watching my aged grandma opening a can of apricots. With that, my face would never go wrong.

The hands show intent. Hands can strangle, reach for weapons, grab at you, throw things, etc. But even if you don't do any of that in the presence of police, you're not home free. Don't clench them, don't hide them, keep them out front, or, better, to the side, lightly open and loose. Remember, rubbing your hands appears vulnerable but instead indicates guilt. You may, however, touch your hands, such as the fingers of your hands touching each other, in a half-praying-hands pose. Do not -- I repeat -- Do not go full praying hands! They take that two ways: 1) The prayer of the guilty; or, 2) A prelude to karate.

Anyway, just some free advice if you're ever out on a walk and the police try to take it away. The fact is, and I say this with certainty, the police are smart enough to know they can't really take your walk away. Think of it, what is a walk but an activity? It's not a tangible thing to be transferred. But you could get a stupid rookie -- Johnny Law with a hot head, who wants you to know he's boss. He's real stupid and even if he can't actually dispossess you of your walk, he might pressure you to deny it, denounce it, or otherwise give up your claim to it.

One other pointer in addition to watching your face and hands: If you get Johnny Law, play along, "Yes sir; No sir; Oh, I didn't know that, sir; That's sure a shiny badge you've got, sir; Is that car hard to drive, sir?; How many times do you rough up people in a day, sir?" Hear all that? As far as he's concerned, you're just an innocent, easily impressed rube, and he's bound to let you go. Then all the way home, you're savoring the whole thing, the walk you still have, and the fact that he thinks he got the best of you, while all along you played him like a cheap fiddle.

My Vigor Vivus Health Plan

You know me and my philosophy of life. I live by the principles of Vigor Vivus. Vigor Vivus is a term for the dynamic heart of life itself. It's opposite, which we so easily slip into, to our detriment, is Rigor Mortis, the static principle of death. Here's some of my exciting "teachings" on the subject:

The Dawn of Vigor Vivus
Teens Reject Rigor Mortis
Vigor Vivus -- I Command the World
Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Your Basic Problem is Rigor Mortis
Unveiling the March of Vigor Vivus
The Unremitting Shield of Vigor Vivus
Vigor Vivus at the Dentist
Teen Talk: Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Rigor Mortis Nix, Vigor Vivus Best Way
Bin Laden Mortis vs. Obama Vivus

I put "teachings" in quotes, because even though I myself believe it completely and live by it, for legal reasons I have to insist that the whole thing is "For Entertainment Purposes Only." But, you know, wink-wink, I recommend that you live by it, too. Although, again, for legal reasons, let me insist that you consult a trusted physician, or any old pay-as-you go quack will do just as well. By merely reading this blog post, you do solemnly swear, or affirm, that you will consult a doctor immediately, before believing a single word.

OK, all the legalese and lawyerly wrangling out of the way, Vigor Vivus is what we live by when we're in the fullness of life, but Rigor Mortis is death itself even in the midst of apparent life. I have known both, intimately. In fact, even for someone as immersed in these principles, it's still easy for me to slip into a Rigor Mortis state of mind. I hate to say it, but I feel like I've just recently come through a rather stormy place.

The inner clouds gathered, the inner sun was dimmed, the inner darkness thickened, inner lightning struck everywhere, and finally an inner tornado came and carried away much of my inner peace. It was only through the inner mobilization of an inner FEMA that I was able to eventually take refuge in an inner tent, then bit by bit rebuild a more permanent inner dwelling. But live and learn. I've reviewed the inner storm chasers' tapes, and vowed I shall never go through that again!

Immediately, I turned back to the principles of Vigor Vivus, once again putting Rigor Mortis to flight. I looked at myself and I didn't like what I saw. I was out of shape, a big problem. I wasn't eating right, I wasn't getting enough exercise, and I had my annual physical coming up in two month. Since I hate hearing my doctor tell me to do the right thing, I decided then and there, It's time! Vigor Vivus, don't fail me now!

This is all true, and, by the way, everything I do in life is strictly cold turkey. I quit eating all junk food, all deserts, ice cream, cake, Rice Krispies bars, wafer cookies, granola bars, potato chips, soda, etc. Instead, I've been eating oranges, bananas, eggs, veggies, peppers, grapes, hamburger, that sort of thing, and I've cut down on bread. No more bacon! All this has been a big help to me. But you know what it actually is? Having my mind on Vigor Vivus. That's how you do things cold turkey. You replace the thought processes of Rigor Mortis -- "I need this, I deserve that," even though it clearly leads to a type of death -- with the thought processes of Vigor Vivus: "I shall live the Vigor Vivus way!" (Remember, consult your local quack.)

Then I launched into an exercise program. I actually just now got back home and I'm sitting here still sweating. I joined a health club, so there I am huffing and puffing on the treadmill, lifting weights, pulling on various bars, laying on odd equipment with places to put your feet while you're doing ab crunches, etc. It's great, not just to see my own amazing physique (I'm down nine pounds), which I can do anytime, but to see the other sweating, grinding, beautiful writhing bodies all around me, some of them being extremely hot. I keep thinking, "Oh, to be 40 years younger! And not so adverse to STDs that I wouldn't touch another human being with a 10-foot pole!"

The exercise is great. And I'm sure you could make a case, however flimsy it might be, that it's chiefly the exercise and the diet that is helping me lose weight and regain my sense of well-being. I will grant you that these things are good, insofar as they go. But what you really need, behind it all, underlying the whole thing, is a philosophy, something you firmly believe, something that guides your thoughts and decisions. For me, that's the dynamic truth of Vigor Vivus!

I could go on, because I do other things that help keep me on track. Like feeding our feathered friends and watching their little antics. Natural activities, walking by the lake, meditation, spirituality. But you get the idea. No matter what it is, its benefits, it's all completely enlivened by fixing your mind on Vigor Vivus ... and letting Rigor Mortis, at long last, simply pass away...

Bait Litter

I've been doing a lot of walking, trying to get myself back in some decent shape. I'm doing very well with it, too, despite broken sidewalks, downed limbs, and the occasional banana peel. Yes, there's been a banana peel on my normal route for the last four or five days, and I've seen it go from fresh and yellow to black and wasted away. I was thinking today, even criminals with their desire to steal know a banana peel isn't worth messing with.

Walking along, I see all kinds of litter, although not in enormous quantities. No one's got garbage cans dumped on their front yard, and it's not blowing around. But here and there, like everywhere, there's some extraneous thing that found its way free and is blowing around, if it's windy, or just laying there waiting for the wind to help it on its way. Should I pick it up?

My normal way of thinking is do-goodism. I may not want to run into you on the sidewalk -- I definitely prefer it if everyone else in the world is asleep -- but if I did run into you and you needed help, I would help. I had a case of do-goodism hit me a few weeks ago, when the men's bathroom at a grocery store was closed but they only had a small barely noticeable sign. I'm sitting there waiting for a prescription and a guy goes hurrying in. Then he comes back out and I said it was closed and gave him directions to the bathroom that was open. It turned out he was looking for something else and didn't seem all that glad that a stranger assumed he needed a toilet. Then the next day I saw a guy drop a couple pieces of paper and I thought I should probably go tell him about it, but I thought of the other guy. So I didn't tell him. It just turned out to be a couple of blank postcards.

So I'm walking along, and I see this litter, and even though I'm not carrying a bag, I could, like if I were on the last leg of my walk, pick some of it up. I have moved limbs and a board out of the road to the curb as a matter of public safety, but in those cases someone really could've gotten hurt. A few pieces of litter aren't going to make much difference.

Today, on my last leg, I saw a crumpled up cigarette box in a yard and thought I could pick it up. But what if the owner of the house just happened to be looking out and didn't know what I was doing? He might call the police and I'd be hauled off. Or -- it made me think of the "Bait Car" show, where guys show up and steal a car that's meant for them to steal, so the police can catch them -- what if there's a show called "Bait Litter" and I'm the intended victim. Of course it's entrapment -- as defined by me -- and there shouldn't be anything wrong with picking up litter, but it is private property, after all, and if the guy wants litter on his yard, who's to say he didn't put it there as a decorative item?

A Man, Not A Mouse

I went by a muscleman gym -- the Pumping Iron Gym -- the other day and started thinking about "The Rocky Horror Picture Show," how Dr. Frank-N-Furter quotes the old Charles Atlas ads about making you a man.

The trick, in my opinion, would be showing up the first time, getting the glances of the other guys pumping iron. But a little reflection tells you, they too were one time a mouse. Then they started lifted weights and soon were kissing their biceps.

There's another reference to this stuff that I can think of, a la Rocky Horror, a song by the Bonzo Dog Band, "Mr. Apollo," in which the Bonzos sing, "He's the strongest man the world has ever seen. And if you take his courses he'll make you big and rough, and you can kick the sand right back in their faces." Since in the comics Mac got sand kicked in his face and needed to bulk up so he could destroy the bully. There's one place where the Bonzos say, "I'm two separate gorillas."

Could they turn me into a man, not a mouse? I was already a member of a fitness club and that didn't work out. I haven't got the desire to drive down there everyday and work out on a bunch of germ-ridden equipment. So what makes me think I'd like to show up at the Pumping Iron Gym for the same thing. I'll probably just have to stay a 170 pound weaking.

But say I did go. It'd probably be like the fitness club, where it's interesting, they have the walls over by the weights lined with mirrors. You can see yourself from every angle picking up the weights. And they're definitely watching ... themselves. It's a narcissistic thing, all the staring in the mirrors, but you can't help it. Even on the thing where you pull down the weights, some kind of bench, there's a dozen of you in the mirrors, it's mesmerizing. You scratch your nose and the whole place scratches along.

The Pumping Iron Gym, though, they're not just into fitness. This is for truly hulking out, like getting you ready for the Olympics. If you keep going there, and if you're faithful at the weights, you're going to have your blood vessels bulging out, along with everything else. The only thing that's going to grow tiny, if you're a man, and I don't know how I would know this, since honestly I've never seen a body builder naked, is his you-know-what. Why? I don't know why I think that, but have you ever seen a stalking bulge in a body builder's pants; I haven't either. It's the only part of you that's not getting a workout. The rest of your cells cannibalize it.

The corollary in women is in their breasts, since they lose all evidence that they ever had breasts. You see them on magazine covers at the bookstore. They're hulked out, their bodies, and they need the full length bra for the upper girth, then they replace the original cups with little pieces of flat uncupped material. All they're doing is covering up the little things that stick out that babies need to eat from. But these gals, as far as I know, and I'm sure there have been exceptions, aren't reproducing. Who would they get for a partner? A mouse like me would be turned off, and the musclemen couldn't do it with the little pinky they've got left. It's ridiculous.

It'll never happen to me. I'm just not that driven. I'd like to be driven to get in fairly decent health, with fairly decent exercise. I need to get out and walk, that's for sure. That'd be better than going to their gym. With gears, pulleys, levers, extra weights, and other gizmos. There's someone out there trying to invent even more wicked looking stuff, to give these guys the illusion that any of it's desirable. Then they take supplements that come in plastic jars the size of buckets. They're hooked in that world, a sad thing.

As for me, I'll continue on in my mouse-like frame. And if I sprout a tail, fur, and cute little ears, so be it, but I doubt that's physically possible.

Alternative Ways of Exercise

This was a complicated game, Mousetrap. We used to not play it but just put it together and watch it go. In fact, I don't think I ever actually played the game and don't even know how you're supposed to. But it was fun just sliding the pieces in their slots and seeing how well it worked. And more often than not, the whole thing could make it from start to finish without screwing up. It seems like the ball overshot the first thing, the stairway, once in a while. But that wasn't even the most complicated part.

I like efficiency, but I also like alternate ways of doing things. My first inclination is to get from Point A to Point B by the shortest, most efficient means. Then there is the "enjoyment" of life that we're reminded of every once in a while, such as taking the obscure highway instead of the interstate. It would be my habit to take the interstate. And it is my habit to try to come up with a form or format for whatever the job is, to get it done, to have more free time to sit around and feel tired.

We used to draw pictures in school -- while we were supposed to be studying, probably -- of crazy machines, like the peanut butter and jelly sandwich making machine. I was fascinated with the idea of assembly lines -- conveyor belts, where you could picture the bread getting spritzed with some peanut butter, etc. Actually, if you watch "Modern Marvels" on History Channel, it's about that way with things. I saw one episode where they were making toothpicks. Fascinating stuff. And making hottubs. Again, they've got it down to a science.

The doctor says I need to exercise more. So that means going to the fitness club and standing there going back and forth. I need an alternative way of doing it. Like they strap you in and it moves you back and forth like toffee on one of those toffee stretching machines. Probably they can't do it because you'd be locked in, your leg would break and there you'd be, spinning away in a million pieces.

In my whole Grandma Slump/Loser Grandson universe, I was thinking of hooking my exercise bike to the motor of my old go-kart, then sitting there and letting the mechanism take me back and forth. Sounds funny at first, but that's just the same as saying you've got an exercise bike with a motor. Which they probably really have. It might be funnier if I hooked it up and sat on my easy chair and watched it. But in what sense would that be exercise? It's absurd.

The only real way to do exercise is to chugga-chugga motion, do it yourself.

Anything That Doesn't Kill Me

I've found over the years -- perhaps fitness research would bear me out -- that when despondency is present, when "Old Man Blues" pays his sometimes daily visit, it's best not to take it lying down, certainly, but to be up and at 'em! I sometimes forget that, then there I am moping around the house, lying in my bed looking up at the ceiling, or dulling the pain with an extra helping of apricots.

Then suddenly it hits me, it's time to get up and get with it! Why let life keep passing me by? There's no percentage in giving up. To postpone misery's passing is to submit to the theft of what quality time I may have remaining, or something like that. Anyway, as my cousin always wisely said, "Anything that doesn't kill me makes me stronger." He could turn a great phrase, and this is one I remember.

So here's the way I handled the post-terrorist threat blues:

First, there was a box in the yard -- must've been blowing through. I took a club and beat the crap out of it.

Second, I got Grandpa's old exercise bike out of the garage, squirted a little oil in some of the bits there and got it loosened up to the point that it could squeak along. Not smooth at all, but I'm thinking as I'm working it, "Anything that doesn't kill me..." This thing might, though. I rode it a mile, which, with the severely constrained mechanism there, giving out, freezing up, then freer for a few seconds -- all quite unpredictable -- is equivalent to about 20 miles.

After that I thought about crashing. Rest by the old maple tree. But that's just life passing me by again. So I was up and at it, running around the half acre, through the weeds, tripping over the clods that have been rooted up by moles or gophers or whatever, and around. Over and over. By now I've got my shirt off, tucked in my back pants pocket. I'm rolling my arms through the air -- you know, like they do. "Anything that doesn't kill me" is going through my mind, but, hey, I'm pretty much out of shape.

Now what? I've worked off a lot of the stress. It's time to live!

Exercise Huff Huff

I saw a saying at someone's blog the other day, and I didn't exactly read it, but I think it said, "80% of it is just showing up."

I've been giving that some thought. It comes across to me as true to a certain extent. Like school, work, relationships. Being there is -- I was going to say half the battle -- 80% of the battle. We can quibble about the exact percentages. If you're there, that's key.

I'm applying it to exercise -- which may have been the original context, who knows.

So I have a membership at the fitness club, but I don't make it as often as I should. Common story. But I have something coming up, and I need my legs to be able to carry me 3 miles or more along a road.

So tonight I did my 80%...I showed up. I went to the elliptical and set it for 40 minutes, which is 25 minutes more than usual. And went at it. When I'm going 15 minutes, AND I'm in the mood, I'll try to get a mile in the first 8 minutes. You have to go like crazy to do that. And the first minute is an easier minute. With some diligence I can get .2 miles fairly easily in the first minute. Then I try to keep track of what I need to ... just make it (or make it comfortably) ... 8 minutes.

But tonight I didn't think of that till I was too far along. Since I was thinking to pace myself for 40 minutes. But then it occurred to me that I ought to aim at a mile every 10 minutes. That way I'd get 4 miles. And so forth.

So there I go. And I did it, made it. With the 5 minutes cool down included I actually got 4.51 miles in all, but I was going like crazy the last 50 seconds to try and press it up over 4.5, since I was so close.

Now my legs feel weak, tired, protesting somewhat.

If I can do that everyday -- I go for big goals -- things ought to be great!