D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
December 2009
Let's (Not) Get Physical
Getting in shape is easy, unless you're finicky about which shape.
It's getting to be that magical time of year again — the air turns cooler, multicolored holiday lighting schemes begin to festoon the trailer park, and children's thoughts turn to boundless material greed borne forth by flying mule deer. Meanwhile, the rest of us find every excuse to belly up to the yuletide buffets, scarfing down copious quantities of traditional fare like chicken-fried bacon in delicate crme gravy with dressing. Which leads to the inevitable vow to begin an exercise program, an empty promise generally made from flat on the back, staring at the ceiling and rubbing the distended abdomen and praying for the sweet release of death. I find the concept of exercise fascinating in theory, but tedious in practice.
A college professor once told me that despite all the pills and programs and books and elective surgeries available, scientists had already discovered the best way to lose weight: eat less and exercise more. Obviously, that's about the stupidest thing I've ever heard, which is why I still have no remorse about inking test answers on the bottom of my tennis shoes.
Luckily for me, the Lightcap genetics are perfectly suited for eating a balanced diet of fried potatoes, fatty meats and top-shelf liquor without gaining weight. In fact, I like to test my digestive tract every now and then and consume 10% of my body weight in a single sitting. It's kind of like watching an anaconda deep-throat a goat, but I can still pull it off with enough butter. Not gaining weight, however, is not the same as being in good physical condition.
My profound lack of physical fitness becomes obvious to me when I get winded by pushing down the clutch pedal of the old Ford truck. When I was younger, I could depress the clutch pedal, pump the brakes and palm the wheel all day while hardly breaking a sweat, but I have allowed my muscles to atrophy to the point that picking up a beer can is equivalent to watching an Olympian weightlifter do a clean jerk. For a rapidly aging new-waver in his early 40s, this really isn't a good state of affairs.
I have trifled with exercise in the past. I went through a brief period of insanity nearly 20 years ago when I suffered the delusion that running would be enjoyable. I stuck with the program for about three months, discovering that with each passing day, I could run a bit farther and spit up slightly less blood. Eventually, the day came when I found that I was almost enjoying the wind in my face, the pavement under my sneakers, and the cartilage grinding to dust in my joints. Luckily, I saw a bright shiny object and it distracted me so much I stopped running. It was called a "car" and it made getting where I needed to go so much easier.
Years later, I took up mountain biking, which combines all the fun of riding an unstable contraption with the excitement of random death. After a few months of moving rocks with my head, I noticed that paved roads are far more smooth, and switched to pavement. My insurance premiums went down, my bike lasted longer, and my kids didn't have to learn to spoon-feed daddy squash at the dinner table. As time wore on, I realized I looked ridiculous in bike shorts and turned the contraption into a nice piece of wall art for the garage, where it resides today, hosting a very nice family of spiders that practice terraforming on the layers of dust.
The result of this is that I have the muscle tone of a tube of sausage and the endurance of a Dixie cup. Although I'm healthy, my doctor manages to tell me to get more exercise every time I visit, but I think she just says this out of rote habit, kind of like a parrot asks for a cracker even if it just had one. From a medical point of view, it would probably make sense — after all, nothing makes you feel more alive than near-death experiences. At my age, she recommends something a little more low-impact, like water ballet or shuffleboard, but claims it is important to move around so the congressional death squads don't accidentally take me by mistake. I like to point out that I walked all the way into her office from my truck all by myself, so I think I'm doing pretty well. Then I stand up and make a fatty grunt that causes her eyebrow to shoot up like a quail from creosote.
By the end of the month, I'll probably be packing my traditional yearly pudge, a comforting layer of love muscle that protects me from winter's cold embrace. I'll smack it and watch the waves wiggle around my waist in the bathroom mirror, and it'll remind me of the leftover Jell-O in the back of the fridge I need to polish off. And yes, I'll probably be wheezing like a calliope — a fat one — by the time I get to the kitchen, but by February, my clockwork metabolism will start whittling away the surplus Henry. I hope. Otherwise, it's quite likely my love will insist I join her at yoga or Tai Chi, in which case I need to make it clear that I will not be responsible for making a scene. After all, it's not like my bicycle shorts have gotten any more flattering.
Henry Lightcap loafs in Las Cruces.