I attempted press-ups today -- and I stress the word attempted -- for what was possibly the first time this millennium. It felt that long anyway. I'm not exactly sure why I felt the urge to get down on the ground and lift my less-than-considerable body weight off the ground with my less-than considerable arms. Perhaps I merely wanted to see if my arm "muscles" still work (incidentally, they don't, and if truth be told they never really did); perhaps I was giving into a desperate plea from a long-neglected part of me that is dying to be set loose - you know, that crazy part of you that wants to engage in physical discipline. It's in there somewhere, but thus far I've tamed it quite admirably.
But whatever the reason, I did it. I got on the ground and did some press-ups. 8 of them to be more accurate. Why a strange number like 8? Well, because I would have died if I did one more. If arms could talk then mine would have gone from berating me for my idiocy to begging me to stop, and finally to loud cries of utter despair, not unlike this one; and that would just have been after press-up number one. But like a man who just doesn't know when to stop, who doesn't know the meaning of the word 'quit', who won't take 'no' for an answer, I struggled on and did a whopping seven more of those perilous exercises until I came to within an inch of my life. Then I quit.
The message is clear. My arms don't like this. Though they may be subordinate to my will, the pain they can cause me is quite persuasive. Their voice echoes in my aching muscles. But I must press on with my press-ups. I have done 8; perhaps someday I will scale the heights of 10. Who knows? In time I may have things coming out of my shoulders that actually resemble a pair of adult male arms.
But whatever the reason, I did it. I got on the ground and did some press-ups. 8 of them to be more accurate. Why a strange number like 8? Well, because I would have died if I did one more. If arms could talk then mine would have gone from berating me for my idiocy to begging me to stop, and finally to loud cries of utter despair, not unlike this one; and that would just have been after press-up number one. But like a man who just doesn't know when to stop, who doesn't know the meaning of the word 'quit', who won't take 'no' for an answer, I struggled on and did a whopping seven more of those perilous exercises until I came to within an inch of my life. Then I quit.
The message is clear. My arms don't like this. Though they may be subordinate to my will, the pain they can cause me is quite persuasive. Their voice echoes in my aching muscles. But I must press on with my press-ups. I have done 8; perhaps someday I will scale the heights of 10. Who knows? In time I may have things coming out of my shoulders that actually resemble a pair of adult male arms.
I've just recently broken my all time record and am now up to 58 push ups and let me tell you they don't get any easier no matter how much you do them.
ReplyDelete3 things to remember about public speaking...stand up...shout up...and most important...shut up..
ReplyDeleteBe also aware that anyting you say, could be used in evidence against you, in the not to distant future..Dad.