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.

Eating Steak, The Energy I Get

I strained to keep my eyes open. I was seriously so tired and weak I could've just dropped right there. This is horrible, I told myself, fighting to keep my vigor, alertness, and faculties. All because I was eating a cold salad ... waiting, waiting, wasting precious minutes till my steak would finally be done...

This is my oldest problem, becoming extremely lethargic while eating, unless it's steak. Then I feel the energy of Life Itself race through my being, giving me potency like a new man. I believe it's somehow related to the original energy of the original bull, the father of cattle.

Then at last it came, a big old perfectly cooked Kansas City Strip. I looked at it hungrily, feeling my potency remount as on angel wings, my hand quivering as I reached for the A1 and slathered that beautiful piece of meat with the sauce. The good stuff.

I dug in, tentatively, eating the first bite, and that was good enough by itself to be a prisoner's last meal. Speaking of angels, they rejoiced over the reddish middle. I was able to successfully add a couple of great stanzas to Handel's Messiah that they'll be singing at community sings this Christmas. Though an old man, I felt my oats again like a spry 14-year-old.

I seriously looked at the waitress, and she at me. I felt my cheeks flush, both from the perfect steak and the closeness we shared, and it was a contest to see which of us would ultimately have the willpower to pull away first. Which got much harder the closer we came to totally losing it, inch by inch. I could feel her hot breath, and surely she could feel mine; at that moment, when it was virtually too late, I pulled back and asked for another Coke.

I love a steak like this, although they make me go wild. If you ever want to take advantage of me, steak's the way to do it. Perfectly formed, perfectly cooked, nicely colored, a certain thickness, gnarly looking but still neat, just like the one she gave me.  The appearance alone would've technically been enough for me to lose it. I forget myself fast. Day to day I have terrific willpower, but with steak something triggers in my brain, and I'm in my danger zone. The steak's on the plate, the plate's in her hand, and what a beautiful hand, etc.

It's just the opposite with salad. I'm not a salad guy. A salad's cold and leaves me cold and lethargic. When it comes to salad I want it small, if at all, and the one I had was big. That meant I'd never be able to eat it. Salad's boring. And yet I hate to see anything go to waste, so it about wore me out. She asked me how the salad was and I said, "Boring," which made her perk up. "Good God, what am I dealing with?" I imagined her asking. Is this Undercover Boss? She didn't know if she was in for a scholarship or the chewing out of her life.

After a while, then, it became obvious I wasn't Undercover Boss, because I returned to the steak with my eyes rolled back in my head. I'm only halfway through and about to have kittens. I want it to go on and on. So I'm taking smaller bites and savoring them more and more. With the savoring, it's triggering key enzymes in my brain and my many glands. My full strength returns. My eyes are getting that Valentino look. In my mind's eye, she and I are working on it from opposite ends, with Valentino and Valentinette about to meet in the middle. It's so totally hot.

She's off, though, quickly, helping other customers. I'm only encouraged because she's checking on me multiple times, and the others at my table, who know we're clicking and yet how impossible it'll be for us to get together. She tells me she lives in the country, and I start thinking two things: 1) Country, such a vast term; and, 2) Animals live in the country. Crazy, natural animals going at it half the night, then curled up on a lazy morning by the stream.

I'm looking at the remains of my salad and the weakness returns; I'm about to doze off. I'm wishing I could crash. Forget the meal, let me sleep, perchance to dream and drift into fantasy land. The Coke's a Coke to die for, but I'm dying. And I have access to all the hot buns I might want, but I'm exhausted. Everything's a waste, except for the remainder of the steak, that beautiful steak! My strength returns.

This late in the meal, is it still as good as it was? Yes, the last bit is as good as the first. You'd think the spell would wear off, but I'm loving it. Just to key me up more, I put salt and pepper on the last bit. Then I slice it in thirds and dip it straight in the A1. It's dripping wet, the A1 soon rolling down my chin.

She comes around to get my debit card and sees me looking up at her, the A1 glistening, adding to the sensuous ambiance already in the allure of my burning eyes. With the very last piece of steak, I can easily picture us mouth-clamped to each of its little ends. "I'm working my way back to you, babe, with a burning love inside!" But she suddenly moves back, as if torn. A bus has arrived, she says, and they're bringing in 48 senior citizens, most of whom won't be able to stand in the lobby and wait. Meaning the rest of us have to clear out and let the bastards in.

But oh baby. That was a steak! The steak that brought us ... so very close, that close to losing it.