Weightless March 23, 2010

A quick look at my physique will tell you that I am no body builder. In fact, most people only take a quick look at me before looking down, and mumbling, "Damn, that fifth-grader is tall. And he has a mustache, too."

As a long-distance runner, I spend most of my exercise time tearing down muscle. Pumped up biceps and pecs would be too bulky to allow me to run comfortably for a long time. Their undulations would also leave oncoming drivers nauseated.

I'm not sure I could even grow large muscles. I took a summer weightlifting course in junior high, which produced no positive results at all. Even the lightest dumbbell on the rack was beyond my ability to move. It was almost as if they had been glued in place. Most of the other participants were football players or wrestlers looking to bulk up before their practices started in the Fall and Winter. They had no empathy for a human stick figure who kept yelling out things like, "I know it says 'ten pounds,' but you have to multiply that by ten times, so it's really like one hundred pounds." (That I can't lift.) And when you can't even do one rep of the lightest weight, how can you do a set? And if you can't do one set, how can you drop the bar on the floor and yell, "Damn, that's what I'm talking about! How you like me now, Ahnold?"

Through physical maturation-finally-in my thirties, I have been able to do a little more heavy lifting. It's still not easy, however. I can shoulder press twenty-five pounds with one arm, eleven times. By the twelfth rep, my arm is shaking like a Ramen noodle holding up a hippo. Once, the cat came up and rubbed himself against my leg while I was in this state, and the resulting shock wave traveled up my torso, and into my shoulder. This triggered the collapse of the entire structure of the upper Mike Potts. The falling tonnage nearly flattened the feline, who would have had it coming.

I used to be embarrassed by my wimpiness, but no longer. My grandmother, eighty-nine years of age, has been doing some lifting as a way to improve her bone density. Except for those in my head, I would agree her bones are denser than mine, because, not only can she lift more than I, she can crush me in arm wrestling. As a result, all the ladies in her social circle have taken up the weights, in hopes of one day pinning the back of my hand to the table. It doesn't bother me any: being trash-talked by your grandma just doesn't have the same stigma as it would coming from one of your peers, "And I, an elderly lady, just defeated you in this test of strength, in which you would clearly, as a man, and younger, have seemed to be at an advantage-Beeyotch." You see what I'm saying?

Besides, I'm strong enough to do most of the things I need to do to survive. I can start the car, steer it to the store, push the cart, load it with food, and swipe my debit card at the register to pay for it. Thank God, though, that they have someone to bag it up for me. That would take me all day. So many Eggo cartons!