A couple of years ago I started weightlifting again. Growing up, my dad had a weightset in the basement. He showed my brother and I the dumbbell and bench press ropes when I was about 12. This was part of being a man (along with fishing and hunting), and while we both took to it, my brother used it to enhance his sporting talents, while weightlifting was my sporting talent.
In high school, it became part of my identity. I hit the gym after school for up to two hours a day, four days per week, all four years. Occasionally the gym would have competitions, and by the time I graduated I had the record for the most dips and the “bench press your own weight” competition. My bench press max, which is the amount you can do one time, was 265. Not bad for a 155 pounder.
When I went to college, I lost interest. I half-heartedly visited the gym a few times, but the guys in the weightroom were chiseled cyborgs and my achievements paled in comparison. Plus, I was suddenly way more interested in the freedom that came with college, which for me meant beer and parties.
Over the years I’ve managed to stay reasonably fit, but after a year into the pandemic and still working from home, I was getting pudgy and my mental health was deteriorating. Exercise, of course, is fantastic for improving your wellbeing (mental and physical), and for me, weightlifting is the exercise that resonates and makes me feel the best, physically and mentally. Some people like running, some like swimming, biking, or team sports, but weights were my jam.
So I got a membership at nearby Snap Fitness. I started off slowly, going through the motions for weeks, knowing that at 40+, anything more than arm-curling a slice of cheesecake is likely to leave your body aching. Then I began adding more exercises and more weight—nothing too extreme, but enough to start seeing gains.
On the walls of Snap Fitness there is a motivational phrase that says “It takes 4 weeks for you to notice your body changing, 8 weeks for your friends and family, and 12 weeks for the rest of the world. Never give up.”
I don’t think the rest of the world gives a shit about my exercise regime, but I did notice that after about 10 weeks (6 weeks longer than Snap suggested, so I probably wasn’t working hard enough) I could tell I was losing fat, becoming a little more angular. Before I had been like a stick of butter on an 80 degree day, barely holding itself together. But pretty soon I looked more like a stick of butter at room temperature, soft and easily spread on toast, but no longer collapsing into myself and not entirely without form.
The problem with exercising towards a goal at this age (45) is that if you take a vacation for two weeks, or hit the road and work from your camper for two months, or pinch a nerve that incapacitates you for 4 months, you lose so much ground that it takes twice as long just to get back to where you were.
So after six more months of progress, nearing my old bench record, and hearing from friends that I was looking super beefy (that may be my word choice), I decided to do each of these things in turn. But it was the pinched nerve (unrelated to weightlifting, I believe) that really got me. I stopped exercising entirely. My mental health tanked. I went from feeling great to being unable to sit or stand without severe pain. I would not wish a pinched nerve on anyone.
Now, after returning from working from my camper for two months, I’m gaining ground again. Another few months and I’ll beat my all-time bench press max (there’s no chance of benching my own weight 25 times, because I am kind of fat now). Is this something to be proud of?
Some people might cynically dismiss my efforts here, I know. Anything from high school seems below striving toward. And even as I write this, I get it. It sounds stupid to me, too. But I’ve always set goals for myself. I think a lot of people do this; we’re a goal oriented society.
For some people that might be not necessarily looking better than you’ve ever looked in your life, but feeling better. Maybe it’s advancing in your career, or starting a whole new one. Or maybe it’s being the best mom or dad, sister or brother, husband or wife, or neighbor that you can be.
My goals now are nothing extraordinary. I’m long past trying to be the best at any particular thing. Much of life is, after all, about realizing your limitations and being alright with setting some dreams aside to be with yourself as you are. Lots of us never get there. But that isn’t stopping me from still trying to be the best me at the things that I care about. In the past it’s been things like learn to play “Classical Gas” on guitar (failed). Learn “Linus and Lucy” on piano (succeeded). Drink a gallon of milk in one hour (succeeded… high school again: most of those goals were incredibly stupid). Writing is another goal of mine lately.
To do something better than you did it before. To try to continuously improve. To move toward something and not settle for what’s easy. These seem like important aspects of life I don’t want to set aside just yet. Of course it’s also important to recognize what you have when you have it. A pinched nerve is a good reminder of that, but hopefully most of us get by with just a friendly pinch.
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