Role Models

As I nudge up against the two week mark without exercise, hair is beginning to grow on my palms.

I can’t be immobile anymore. Walking isn’t enough. I’ve got to sweat. I’ve got to grit my teeth. I’ve got to accomplish a physical feat.

E. gets me. He works out every day. When he’s antsy, he goes to the gym. When he’s angry, he torpedoes lacrosse balls against the backyard fence. Even when he’s too beat to move, he forces himself to lift weights.

I know a thing or two about lifting weights. I was once an aerobics instructor. But it’s been a while since I did any real training. Mostly, swimming keeps my arms I shape.

But I can’t swim until my incision heals. And I can’t hike yet. I can, however, ride my stationary bike. And I can lift weights.

So I started putting myself through the paces with five-pound barbells: lat and chest pulls, bicep curls, triceps pushes. 

E. watched me for a while. He offered some routines and some corrections. He reminded me to breathe. He told me to take breaks.

My arms burned, then turned to Jello.

"How ya doin'?" he asked, concerned about my stamina. "You're gonna feel this tomorrow," he announced, impressed by my insistence on pumping iron 12 days after surgery.

I did more reps.

He cheered me on.