Breakfast Mush

There’s this thing that happens when your friends know you “do fitness stuff”. It’s akin to the Pickup Truck Call, in that you’re top-of-mind when it comes to moving things, especially large, awkward, or heavy things. This is expected and, usually, fairly entertaining, because there’s usually food and stuff as thanks, plus… hey, free bonus exercise. :-)

There’s also the inevitable wallpapering of stuff that captures social media mindshare, which Oatmeal’s treatise on running did when he posted it recently.

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Batshit

 

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.

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Project Samson

Because everything in the gym is better with ridiculous bets with friends….

Perro Grande mentioned that he’s not gonna shave his sad-ass excuse for a scraggly man-beard until he benches 315×5 (he can hit singles right now); I am considering a similar follicular detente as I make my push for a single or more at 275.

Similarly, we’re both foregoing haircuts until we squat 405.

Things may be getting hairy at the office come springtime; I’m really hoping to hit both of these before March (the bench is about 20# away, but I’m plateaued, and the squat is 70# more than I’ve ever done, but I did 325# 6×3 two weeks ago).

Justifiably smug

Not for finally figuring out how to swing the goddamned batman in my softball league, though inside-the-park homers in two straight games, and finally getting the ball to the fence in center field is testament to that.

No, this is simply shallow vanity. I’m finally looking more like I want to look.

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By the numbers

Yes, it’s the first of the month/year/thing, and I actually woke the fuck up and busted out the tape measure. Timeliness and shit, not to mention taking full advantage of all the resolutionist momentum that everyone else in the world is going to be bandwagoning the living fuck out of.

So, hey, here’s the state of the meat at the dawn of 2012, going into a de-load week before testing my maxes and moving into the next phase of things.

And, if you’re good, there will be Yet Another Phone Shot (YAPS) to go with each of these updates moving forward. Nothing spectacular, just me, standing around in my office wearing a pair of shorts. No lighting tricks, no flexing, nada. Those conditions are not the case in the photo at left; that’s racking 165 after doing some head-supported rows with the flattering (but very fucking hot) halogen in my garage overhead.

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T totalling

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.”

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The shirt off my back

Randomly gifted with a fairly nice, black, Nike dri-fit golf shirt from Dell at work the other day, I decided to wear it this morning.

It’s an XL, which, admittedly, I’m not. However, the contrast between the fit of an XL and my more habitual Ls (with a couple of Ms) has got me thinking about the concept of vanity sizing for guys.

Yes, part of my goal when I started lifting was to outgrow my Medium polo shirts, at least through the arms, shoulders, and upper back (there’s nothing to be done about length; no lift I’ve found will actually make me any taller, dagnabbit). That’s on the forseeable horizon, and not just because of my penchant for washing my laundry in warm or hot water (cotton shrinks; this dry-weave/dri-fit/wicking stuff is fucking amazingly resilient to that sort of stupidity). So, it’s not surprising that I’m most comfortable in shirts with an L on the tag.

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