Inner Jock

When I was young, it held a ton of books.

I went to school pre-Internet so let me repeat that - a ton of books.

They were huge and bulky, with hardcovers that cut into my lower shoulder blades and wore out the edges of my poor backpack every single year, ripping holes into them through which pencils and soda change fell into oblivion.

But I hauled them everywhere because there was no time to stop at lockers between classes, no time to catch a breath. I had to keep studying, studying, studying and getting those good grades. That’s what everyone told me, so I did it.

Sure, I was a nerd. I got glasses at age twelve when the eye strain caught up to me. I got chubby after I failed out of all manner of sports, and my homework took up too much time for them anyway. I got no invites to parties, or dances, or dates.

Fast forward twenty five years and here’s me again, packing up my backpack before I head into work. Instead of books, however, there’s just a handful of simple items: a pair of sweats, a clean shirt, some running shoes, an old MP3 player with earbuds, and a spare stick of deodorant.

Twenty five years taught me one thing: I can’t abide by studying anymore. It got me nowhere. My intelligence didn’t save me from PTSD or loneliness. No amount of straight A’s could stop my inherited curse of heart disease and low metabolism. The reward for all my hard work had been just that - more hard work. Now, I’ve learned to work for myself.

I need my gym time.

I dream about it, when I can’t go.

I lift those weights and it’s like the weight of all those books falls off my shoulders into the mat.

I plug in my earphones and drown out all the nagging voices, worries, and cares of my day to just breathe.

And my backpack lasts a heck of a lot longer without all that extra baggage dragging it down.

And hopefully, so will I.