The alarm goes off at four-thirty, it's red eyes blinking with the sound. I hit it once. Ten minutes later I hit it again and give up, turning it off, swinging my feet to the floor. As carefully as I can, I open drawers to retrieve my tattered lifting clothes and open the closet to unearth my creased but stout workboots and get dressed in the tepid glow of a nightlight.
She rolls over in bed and lifts her head from the pillow. "What are you doing?"
"Working out".
She looks at the clock. "So early? What the hell for?"
I finish lacing one boot and move to the next. Several reasons come to my mind:
So I can be stronger -- not just in my muscles, bones, tendons -- but in my soul as well. Nothing like moving the immovable object to get you believing in yourself again. And then using that strength to help others.
Because then there will be justification for that third bowl of pasta and fifth sausage tonight.
Because of the monastic routine of sets and reps and changing plates in the predawn quiet is a rare treasure.
So I can still do useful things like moving sofas and lifting lawnmowers in to car trunks well in to my old age.
So when I'm 70 I can still lift my sons over my head and toss them in to the pool with the ease I do so now.
To still look good in my swim trunks.
Because when a dark time comes -- and they always do -- I will be able to rush someone to an emergency room in my arms.
Because as vain as it is, it's nice to hear my teenage nieces say, "My God, Uncle Lovejoy, you're buff!"
Because it is a fountain of youth.
Because -- at least for me -- lifting is natural Cialis.
Because during those rare precious times that we have for each other I want to be hard and strong enough to make your body squeal with joy, to lift you and set you on top of me and dance.
But I don't say any of that.
Instead I say, "So I can keep my girlish figure."
"You're a loon." She is snoring softly by the time I finish lacing the second boot.
I gently shut the bedroom door and walk as softly as my clunky boots allow on the tile and rugs of my home. The fluorescents in the cluttered garage flicker sleepily then come fully awake.
In a cleared corner 300 pounds, a bar and a bench wait, beckoning.
Inspired by iceowl's American Football.