Realizations

Approximately one month from now will mark the 1 year anniversary of The Legend of the Torn Pec -- my most epic weight room war story.  While I would love to say that the notorious event happened while I was attempting to bench a new one rep max of 280 pounds (just to be clear, I have never lifted, nor will I ever be able to lift 280 pounds), the reality is that it happened while on my third rep (of 5) lifting 155.  Mediocre at best.  As the bar crashed to my chest to a soundtrack of tearing muscle fibers, the weight room attendant quickly rushed to my assistance.  The details of our conversation are vague to me, but I do remember him trying to help me differentiate what muscle I had injured -- my response to him was a curt, "Dude. I'm in Physical Therapy school.  I'm pretty sure I know what happened."  It was clearly not a time for politeness.

Today, I returned for the first time to lift weights at Cary Street Gym, the site of the legend (disclaimer: that is only half true, I have lifted weights there recently but not in any structured manner).  My first lift of the day was, you guessed it, the bench press.  I have only just started bench pressing again in the last 3 weeks, and my weight has been low -- very low.  I have worked my way up from 65 pounds, and am now able to lift a whopping 95 pounds!  Unfortunately, this amount of weight does not do much to impress the "Alpha Male" weight lifters that inhabit the weight room at 4:30 -- prime lifting hour.

As I progressed through my 4 sets, starting with 75 pounds and finishing with 95, I began to notice various lifting duos glancing at this skinny kid lifting his cute 95 pounds.  And they were smirking at me.  Me.  In my head: "I fucking tore my pec the last time I was benching on this bench you asshole."  Me. In the weight room: *continues to lift cute 95 pounds while listening to my music in my headphones* Which brings me to my next realization.

Today was the very first day that I felt old working out at Cary Street Gym, a gym predominately used by VCU undergraduate students.  Maybe it is purely psychological since I have recently graduated and am begin to start my first real big boy job -- but today even the biggest meat head looking douche bag looked young to me.  It didn't bother me, per say, but it was an interesting realization to have.  Something that further amplifies the change that is taking place in my life right now.  While I plan to reap the benefits of my student privileges to use Cary Street Gym through the end of the summer, I will not be terribly upset when I have to start paying my 30 dollars a month to become a member of Gold's Gym, the land of the young professional meat head douche bags.

The last realization I had today happened when I was walking back into my god-forsaken, depressing apartment.  As I was walking into the front doors, a couple that I have frequently seen in the past was walking out.  Over the last couple of years, I always saw this couple sitting outside together smoking cigarettes.  Often times when I would see them, I would be leaving for or returning from a run.  The fitness elitist that I am, I would always spew internal verbal venom at their lack of initiative to partake in any sort of fitness, and the senseless practice of repeatedly smoking ciggys together.

Today, when I passed them, they were dressed in workout clothes, water bottles in hand, and bright exercise-esque shoes on their feet.  They looked healthy.  It made me realize that people can change.