Draper here... The Hook is Getting Deeper

It's a tough day when you discover you can't live without your
training, specifically weight training. Oh, you'll live, alright -- I
tend to exaggerate -- but not without anguish. An important part of
you, something similar to your heart and soul, spouse or first born,
is missing.

Some who are new to IronOnline are thinking, "What's he talking
about?" Stick around long enough and you'll find out. This
iron-hoisting stuff grows on you like a southern accent. Ya'll see!

It usually starts with wanting to lose a little fat and gain a little
muscle. Toning is good. It then proceeds to feeling exhilarated and,
well, sort of strong. "Here, I'll move that big box for you,
Bridgette."

Your clothes fit better, tighter in a good place and looser in another
good place. "Excuse me, miss; do you have this in petite?" or "Hey,
buddy, I'll take one of those fitted Ts in XL... that's extra-large."

One day someone asks if you've been working out. You say, "Excuse me?"
You heard the person's inquiry the first time, but you have him repeat
it again. Shucks! An avalanche of humility shrugs from your contorting
shoulders as you inflate your chest, flex your lats, contract your
triceps and grow red-faced gasping, "Well, yeah, maybe, a little."

Toning is okay for beginners, you decide, but lean muscle is really
where it's at. Give me baseball biceps balanced on horseshoe triceps
and shoulders simulating smoldering cannonballs... or a flat tummy
carried by firm legs and a bottom that doesn't jiggle when ya wiggle.
I can do this!

The hook is getting deeper. Your presence is required in Dallas for a
week-long seminar. "Dallas? Me?" It's always you, every year. You love
the Dallas seminar -- happy hour, long lunches, late dinners, flirting
and room service. Suddenly, it's "Do they have a gym in Dallas? Will I
have time to train? Oh, no! The three-hour flight and the stopover in
Chicago... airports and airplanes and the food...

Novelty wears off, as novelty does, and lifting becomes a habit akin
to eating and sleeping and paying your bills. Last month, however,
they shut off the water and repoed the car, but you didn't miss a
single workout. What's that all about? You notice, too, you now have
five pair of sneakers and a special shelf in the closet neatly
arranged with sweatpants and very cool, well-worn T-shirts with the
necks cut out.

Disciplines, the cruel guidelines against which you once strongly
rebelled, are now the character-building credos by which you live.
Where'd that come from? Train hard, eat right and be strong! What are
you, nuts? What happened to play, plop and please yourself?

One day you miss a few workouts because your wife's family's in town.
"Welcome, Bob and Jane, little Jimmy and cutesy Sally." You're okay
the first day; you're oblivious, you're generous, life is unaltered.
Day two, you're a little irritable. When you'd normally be training
chest and back, your favorite muscle groups, you're watching American
Idol, America's favorite TV show, and eating Chinese take-out with the
chubby in-laws. You ask in a crackling, singsong tone, "How long ya'll
be staying, Bob and Jane, Jimmy and Sally?"

On the third day you notice your muscles are blobby. Joe and Jane and
the snots want to go to the Italian restaurant -- they sure can put it
away -- down the street from the gym of all places. Who are these
people? You hardly know them. By the end of the evening you're
muttering incoherently, feel like stuffed manicotti and look like a
raving maniac. No pump, no burn, no clank, no progress, no purpose.
"What's happening to me? I'm sinking, I'm goin' down."

One merciful day they leave, "Bye-bye, see ya next year." But there's
more...

Your friends want to go to the movies; you want to go to the gym. Your
buds want beers; you want Bomber Blend. When they're at Cabo or Aspen,
you're at the Arnold Classic or the Powerlifting Nationals. The guys
are talking about babes; you're talking about barbells. Gals are
talking about dumplings; you're talking about dumbbells. Your neighbor
gets a flat screen; you get a treadmill. Your co-worker buys season
tickets; you buy an annual at The Weight Room.

There was a time when you'd rather confess your sins publicly in the
town square than go to the gym on Sunday, or any day for that matter.
Now, Sunday at the gym is a special time cuz it's empty and the clang
you hear is your clang, the breathing, your breathing. Secretly, you
suspect because this is a sort of sacrificial workout, and because no
one but you is drawing upon the energy and oxygen of the gym, and
because you are so valiantly alone and so utterly close to the iron,
as if at one with its molecular transfusion, muscular growth must be
unadulterated and unobstructed, absolute, direct, pure and free. I'm
just saying...

Sunday at the gym is a rush.

You think that's weird, here's the kicker. The guilt you experience
upon missing a workout is huge and fast. How did you back yourself
into this pinched and poorly illuminated corner? You dare forego the
gym for a non-emergency occasion -- eating, drinking and being merry
-- and the pain is deep and unforgiving. Skip a workout and you lose a
pound of muscle, skip two and you gain a pound of fat, skip three,
you're a mess and they come and take you away. Your diet is subject to
similar limitations and penalties, tuna and water the most common and
grievous.

But it's worth it, you say, the compromise, the pain, the isolation
and the peculiarities. You might not be all you want to be, but you're
not on the inside looking out. You managed to escape the ordinary,
unhealthy world in its dullness and complacency, and have established
goals and purpose and direction. You're on the move, en route,
becoming, fulfilling, developing and having a blast. Go!

~ Got the blues? Put on your lifting shoes.

~ Nothing to do, nowhere to go? Do the seated lat row.

~ In a shoulder-shaping phase, try the sidearm lateral raise.

~ Want big guns? Move iron by the tons, curl till ya hurl and dip
till ya flip!

~ Under stress? Military press!

~ In a fog, take a jog. Not to your liking, go biking. There's always
hiking.

~ Are you miffed and in a tizzy? Weight lift and drink a Bomber Blend
fizzy.

~ Have not, no got and without a pot? Squat a lot!

~ No need to fret, get one more set.

~ And should you forget, on this you can bet:

The iron heals, mends, fortifies, toughens, vitalizes, enables,
engages, entertains, satisfies, serves, instructs, humbles and makes a
good door stop... or runway anchor for small winged-craft in mild
windstorms.

Flight Might, Bomber Power and God's Speed... Dave Draper

Source: davedraper.com