Work in Progress #4: Working on Myself

I think back often to the first time I met my in-laws.

My wife and I had been dating about a year. In that time, she had moved from Bellingham to Seattle, and we would alternate the drives weekly to see each other. And since this was the weekend that her parents were visiting from overseas, I drove town to hang out and meet them. After the initial meeting, my wife, her sister, and their mother went into a bookstore in Queen Anne, leaving me with their father. I admit to being incredibly nervous. It wasn’t because he was physically imposing (I’m a big guy), or that he was the type to clean a shotgun in front of a prom date (he’s not; he’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met). It was simply because I wanted him to be okay with me seeing his daughter, even though there were good reasons why one might not.

After a bit of conversation, I remember him saying that he wasn’t concerned that I was taking advantage of her; it had been a year, after all. And since it seemed like I was going to be a big part of her life, he needed me to answer one question.

“Do you have a family history of illness?”

It sounds funny in the context of this story, but it was a valid question. There’s a bit of an age gap between my wife and I, and he would hate to have his child stuck taking care of a partner whose body was failing him while she was still relatively young. I completely understood. After a quick rundown of the genetic positives (like longevity; my mom is 80 and her mom is 103) and illnesses (the most egregious is my late father’s lung cancer, cultivated from decades of smoking), I assured him I would be hale and hearty for decades to come. I prided myself on fitness, and even though I wasn’t quite in the shape I had been in my 20’s and early 30’s, I could still join a game of pickup basketball at a moment’s notice. If I needed to get into prime condition, I was reasonably confident I could turn it back on when I needed to.

Yeah, about that…

I get winded a lot faster than I used to. My speed is diminished and my reaction time sure ain’t what it used to be. My joints crackle and crunch, and I’m carrying about 60 pounds more than I’m comfortable with. The thought of a full-court basketball game right now is enough to make me breathe heavy and make my heart race. Now, don’t get me wrong; there’s a number of perfectly good excuses… excuse me, reasons why things are like that now. I’ve had multiple life changing events in the last five years. In no particular order, I’ve moved twice, changed jobs, bought a home, got married, and lived through a global pandemic that made it difficult to prioritize getting into the gym. As a matter of fact, the only thing about my day-to-day life that is the same as it was five years ago is that I’m in it. Even simpler than that, I’ve gotten older. I’m much closer to 50 than I am to 30, so maybe the expectation that I could magically turn back the clock is a little unrealistic.

Side note: that is the first time I’ve acknowledged the numerical reality of being closer to 50 than 30. Someone please check on your boy.

At the beginning of the year, I made a commitment to myself to shed the weight. We have yet to go on our honeymoon, so what better thing to shoot for than to be beach ready by October? I also figure that dropping the bulk will make my knees less sore, my back less stiff, and my joints happier overall. Over the last 18 months, I’ve assembled a viable mini gym in my garage with enough equipment to rival a Motel 6. It’s about as glamorous as a garage gym can be while still being used as an active garage. It’s extensive, available, and I’m making it a point to use it as frequently as I can. I’m also trying to make changes to my diet—more greens, less sweets—to help make my goals more attainable.

I’m down about seven pounds since January 1. It’s not as great a start as I would have liked, but it is a start.

There are challenges, of course. Some of them I can address, while some are much harder. The thing about my job that makes it excellent for writing—long periods of sitting, unsupervised, in the middle of the night—makes it terrible for staying in shape. Turns out that our bodies like moving around more than that. Also, I enjoy cooking and eating, and food tastes good. And, of course, working overnights can make it really tough to drag myself out of bed at a reasonable hour to do this when there are also so many things that can be accomplished in a day.

But again, these are excuses.

When I proposed to my wife, at the top of the big Ferris Wheel on the Seattle Waterfront, I promised her 80 years. I was 40 at the time. My margin for error is small, and I don’t like breaking promises if I can avoid it. Not to her, not to her dad. So, yeah, I have work to do.