My friend Batty put out the call for some real-people versions of those ubiquitous facebook fitness motivational posters.
So, yeah. You knew this was coming.
Some things are easy to gauge — strength and endurance and weight — because we have the tools at our disposal to measure them. Other things are trickier — sleep quality, or various nutritional balances — but still within the realm of doable for someone who is attentive and attuned to how their body works. But for some things, there’s no real substitute for professional diagnostics and evaluation.
And this brings us to today’s subject, which is going to come as something of a surprise to most readers.
Your not so humble scribe has what has somewhat coyly become known as “Low T.”
“I’m an easy thing to hurt yourself against.”
I joke with an old friend (that is, a friend of long acquaintance, not one of advanced years. She is STILL twenty-nine, some-fucking-how) about being her “sexy nemesis,” because I don’t pull any rhetorical punches in our friendship, and gleefully fuck with her when I think she’s getting too complacent.
This is my standard modus operandi in many things; my younger, more pretentious self wrote a first-person essay from Satan’s POV about trafficking in doubt, for instance. Be that as it may, presenting a challenge, an obstacle, or a target is something I tend to do whether I mean to or not.
15/9/3: Overhead Press (Friday) | Deadlifts (Sunday)
It’s also “weigh and measure weekend,” though I don’t know if I’ll snap some progress pictures to share or not. Feeling a little squidgy after entirely too much coffee and some much-needed beer.
OHP Friday frankly kind of sucked. Deadlifting on Sunday went better.
I’m just going to assume the over/under on every Bills game this season is 9 points above whatever the opposing team’s average points per game is, since I think the boys in blue have a chance at coming in under 150 points scored this season unless they decide to play without a quarterback at all.
That bitching aside…
Lunchtime saw me working on my dips. I hate dips. Haaaaate. 2×10 sandwiched a 1×20, which sucked a lot. So did medicine-ball rolling my traps, rhomboids, delts and quads – interesting popping and crunching sensations ensue.
In and among the various diagnostic bits of conversation I shared with the folks at the orthopedist’s office, some nice things were said about my phisical health and general wellness, which was nice to hear, and reassuring. However, what struck me most at the time was when, in the course of the examination, the doctor said, “You have a lot of callouses.”
“I lift weights.”
It was, at the time, nothing but the simple truth (or the simple iron truth – the fellow who does that site is a kindred spirit; worth the read). Upon further reflection, it seems to suggest a bit more than that.
In the course of re-drilling the holes through the 6×6 posts that will form the uprights of an outdoor chinup/gymnastic ring setup, the drill bit got bound up, and the drill spun, taking my right hand with it through about 135 degrees of clockwise rotation. Something in the hand did not approve of this course of action, and went “pop.”
I dropped the drill, said, “Ow! Shit!” and went inside to get some ice and cold water on it to prevent swelling (I took off the titanium band on that ring finger, just in case) and assess the damage.
At which point, shock kicked in, and I went from uncomfortable but functional to woozy to “Where is my alarm clock, if I’m just waking up from a restful night’s sleep, replete with prosaic dreams?” I apparently blacked out for ten or fifteen seconds, including a few seconds of seizure-like twitching. Fortunately, K caught me and lowered me to the floor, then called 911. Minor, if completely justified, freaking out ensued, as did treating me for shock and getting me an ice pack for the hand.
Ten or fifteen minutes later, a couple of EMTs arrived to give me the once-over. I was still on the floor, just in case, and had a couple towels over me because I was apparently cold and clammy, but otherwise awake, aware, and was offering to talk to the dispatcher.