It’s like being on an out of control, speeding train — a ride I feel I may have become too old to take — but, here I am, going, on this life-changing quest to get ready for the 2014 RIDE TO CONQUER CANCER (click HERE) to make a pledge for me — PLEASE? I’m killing myself for this thing.
I blame my friend, S. She knows who she is. Last night she texted me after she had attended a spin class: “Why did you ever agree to this?” Funny that, as she talked me into it. I replied, “This is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.” She suggested that perhaps I should “friend-divorce” her. Well, I have enough ex-friends, thanks, and how could I divorce someone who has started a Twitter hashtag in my honor: #CharlieTheBeast.
Beast? Well, I’m trying. Yesterday, as I do almost every day, I went to the gym. I have not been losing weight nor gaining muscle/strength to the degree I feel I should be — meaning, after two weeks of dieting and intensified workouts I do not look like this:
And so, I switched things up at the gym. I did my hour of cardio but divided it between four different machines, beginning and ending with two biking variations with elliptical and treadmill visits in between. After that, I did weight work on my abs, shoulders, and chest. When I got home, one of my many training partners was about to go on a real-world bike and despite my having just gymmed — I went along for a seven-plus mile trek. Later, reading, I did fifty crunches, planked, and bicep curled after every chapter. I woke up this morning and, you know what, I still don’t look like this:
So, I continue to adjust, including changing my diet and cutting WAAAAAAAAY back on two things I love — coffee and wine. SACRIFICE!
But, things even out, right? I have discovered Siggi’s Yogurt. So delicious. Luckily it is available at Wegman’s, across the street from my gym. Unluckily, it costs $2 a container. I have determined that I am in love with its creator. You can read about him – CLICK HERE. This stuff is addictively delicious, has none of that horrid sweetness of some yogurts, and is so damn tantalizingly creamy. Try some. But hide it from everyone else.
Speaking of hiding things … I need to get out of here and to the gym. I like to go around 11 because everyone from the morning shift is leaving and the afternoon shift doesn’t really hit until much later, so I am left in relative peace, plenty of machines, not too many muscle-heads walking around; I can hide in the near-emptiness of the place and enjoy a shower and sauna in a usually empty locker-room.
Usually. Looking around there, I have realized that I am older than many, many of the people there. I am, it seems, a Daddy. Not, mind you, in the biological sense, but, rather, in the endless categorization and labeling practiced by society — and particularly viciously applied by a subset of the “gay culture” — and now that I fall into the Daddy age-group/category, it seems — ONE MORE TIME — I do not fit.
A Daddy is supposed to be hairy and muscular and aggressive and — if not — then, like Calvin Klein or Marc Jacobs — it REALLY helps to be some combination of FAMOUS and RICH. Oh Charles, one more time, FAIL FAIL FAIL. Guess this will be one more year I won’t be getting any Daddy’s Day gifts — like, for example, a way to carry water when I’m biking — I’d prefer a water boy (or two):
Alas, not likely. In truth, I don’t want to be a Daddy. Just like I didn’t want to be a Twink when I was one. Just like I didn’t want to have to toe the gay line when the revolution was happening. Just like I didn’t want to be what masculine meant or what sissy meant. Truth — and I haven’t time or energy to go into this again — I don’t want to be defined as anything, and I want to be evolved enough not to define or limit anyone else. I want to live in a reality where labels do not matter — where the essence of the SOUL is all that factors in to whether or not we connect with another. I WANT that, and yet, my physical attractions are NEVER based on the beauty of a soul — and the most beautiful souls I know, are not people with whom I’d physically connect — so, I am a slave to labels as well. But, that doesn’t mean I want to be … but it also doesn’t help me to stop objectifying people and wishing I could get me a water boy … I am flawed. Imperfect. And, as usual, I am walking alone …
I know, everyone feels this way, but, some days, despite all I try to do to make the time here count, it feels as if I am wrapped, invisible, sweltering in the garb I’m forced into by the culture, by this reality, and climbing, climbing, breathless and exhausted and still more climbing, an endless set of steps to some destination about which I’ve no clear idea, know little, but am certain I cannot go back and cannot sit down and cannot, really, even catch my breath …
… which is why, some days, I wish someone would just go ahead and throw this bad daddy from the train(ing) or, maybe, under the train?
Or, perhaps, I just need a nice, long nap . . . I mean, as far as the label thing goes, I missed Judy’s birthday! I must be tired or in crisis.
Later, my friends.