Am I becoming a “muscle-head?” Actually, I’m not even sure if that’s the right term. That’s how little I know about gyms and lifting weights. Although I am learning. I’ve been trying to farm-raise a muscle or two along my upper body. A field of abs here. A row of biceps there. Maybe even a plot of pecs for the spring.
As an avid runner, my lower body has always been in pretty good shape. My legs were toned with sharply angled muscles. My upper body, on the other hand, looked like a man who had launched a hunger strike about three decades ago.
But a few months back, when I was forced to take to the Flagler College gym to rehab my wounded leg, I started looking around at these scary and intimidating devices for arms and shoulders. While I couldn’t figure out what any of them did, or much less how to use them, I got it in my head that I should expand my circuit to add some upper body workouts.
So I’ve started lifting weights, and actually I’m really enjoying it. It’s added some variety to my running, and even put some meat on my formerly scrawny bones.
Not that I have any clue what I’m doing. Some of these devices are quite complex, and I’m still not sure I’m doing them right. I don’t know what muscles they work, and I usually end up doubled over in pain when it feels like an electric eel has latched onto my arms.
Even though I read the instructions and warnings multiple times, I still get myself into painful and compromising positions that make me call out for help: “Hey, buddy, can you grab that crow bar and come pry me out?”
Once I strained a pectoral muscle so bad that it actually exploded out of my chest. It’s always embarrassing to have to ask someone to pass your pec back.
I don’t go for free weights. I envision myself dropping one on my head, or decapitating myself. Those are for real weightlifters the kind who have gloves and muscles that look like a side of beef. These guys groan and strain, saying things to each other like, “Hey, man, can you spot me?” or “grab that little guy over there and scratch my back with him.”
A lot of these gym-goers can be a bit intimidating, too. These are serious-looking dudes with real muscles — not these flimsy rubber bands I wear around.
And there’s a whole attitude to the gym that I haven’t quite grasped yet. These other guys have a look and an intensity that is alien to me. I’m much more loose, easygoing and lighthearted. This doesn’t fit with the serious mood that hovers over the gym.
I was given some advice one day when I bumped into this friend of mine from the college bookstore. He was trying to “bulk up” for the onslaught of books and students who were about to tsunami him. The secret to lifting weights and fitting in, he said, was to just stare straight ahead, not make eye contact with anyone and try to look mean.
Sounded simple enough, except that my “mean” face looks more like someone whose shorts are three sizes too small. Like I swallowed a peach whole and it got lodged in my throat. Goofy? I’ve got that down pat. Worried and flimsy? No problem. Mean? Not my strong point.
So instead, I go about my lifting trying to look unassuming and invisible. And somehow I’m actually seeing noticeable improvement. No longer when I flex do my muscles retreat inward like terrified turtles. Sure, some are no larger than M&Ms, but it’s a start. And my wife seems impressed. “Look at your shoulders,” she cooed the other day. “I told you they weren’t supposed to be indented like potholes.”
I flex and try to look cool for her. Then she brings me right back down to earth when she asks if my shorts are too tight.