No Pain, No Migraine

Lady* and gentlemen, I am proud to announce that my once-skinny ass is these days up to a very healthy 71 Kilograms (nearly 157 pounds), 6 Kilos more than what I weighed only 2 months ago. Surprisingly, this is not due to my late-night beer and later-night galbi predilection, but rather a rediscovered zeal for exercise of the non-onanistic variety.

Please don't mistake my confidence for arrogance, a few months ago I mentioned to a friend that I possess the willpower to achieve any goal I set for myself**. (It's what got me on the roster of the Seoul Samsung Thunder, after all***.) This conversation centered upon my prodigious smoking habit (a pack a day, if you're curious), and when it was posited that I'm a motherfucking liar -- because who in his right mind sucks down a pack of squares per diem and has the wherewithal to claim he's an authority on successful living? -- I replied that I can quit any time, I just don't wanna****.

But I WANTED to get in shape. When a four-year old challenges you to an arm-wrestle and nearly pulls off the upset*****, you start to see things a bit more clearly. You kinda have to have an epiphany. Of sorts.

I decided to prove the imaginary detractors in my head wrong. I decided to start working out every day until I could replace the adjective "scrawny" with "stupid" as the most apt word to describe myself. I'm almost there.

Certainly, I'm no Hank Azaria in Along Came Polly -- but after 3 weeks of eating well, exercising every day******, and constantly looking at myself in the mirror and kissing my biceps like a WWE heel, I'm seeing some definite progress. Think Max Cady with a lot fewer tattoos (read: none) and a lot more pot belly.

Someday soon, I'm totally gonna go to the beach and kick sand at some random ajumma. Although I'm considering abandonning my regimen, cuz my dick looked a lot bigger before I started working out. And if I don't have a long johnson I have nothing. You think I'm joking.

Regardless (vis a vis my incredible shrinking penis), today I was faced with a tough hurdle. See, on Sunday I started out exercising*******, and after 40 push-ups I got a pretty mean headache. I told myself it was just the aftereffect of an evening of carousing. But today, as clean and sober as Michael Keaton, I caught a bad one. After 20 push-ups I had to take a T. My headache had returned, and this time it felt as though my skull was imploding.

I now know what David Kessler felt in An American Werewolf in London when he transformed into a lycanthrope, I'm convinced. I was literally brought to my knees, clutching my head in agony. The only thing that stopped me from screaming was the knowledge that it would only intensify my suffering.

I picked up the telephone to call who the hell knows, but I couldn't see straight to dial a single digit; and my always reliable hands, as though magnetized to my scalp, would not under the most concentrated effort stray far for more than a second or two. Jesus, I wish I'd had a Bluetooth.

You know what, though? I walked that fucker off. I did another 20 push-ups, was again brought to my knees, then did another as soon as the pain subsided just a little...lather, rinse, repeat; and in the process I learned something I already know: if I'm truly set on something, I'm going to do it, and only the reaper can stop me. TRY to stop me, I mean.

(Please, don't mistake my arrogance for confidence.)

When I arrived home from work this evening I had completely forgotten about this afternoon's cranial torture. I was again reminded of it when I dropped and gave 40, however. Big deal. Maybe I have some fucked up spinal shit or something********, but everybody hurts, right? Michael Stipe taught me that.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll soon turn into a werewolf.

Which would not only be cool, but would also compound the claim that I am always right.

Bite you later,

Eoin







* Hi, Mom.

** Obviously, the initials NL were used as proof.

*** With great willpower comes great compulsive lying.

**** As far as debating goes, my skills are unmatched.

***** In my defense, she WAS Little Miss Titania, 3 months running.

****** Full disclosure: 300 push-ups, 300 stomach crunches (I haven't shit in a week! THAT's progress), 100 arm curls with my mammoth Case Logic CD holder, and an unknown number of times lifting my fold-away table above my head until I make up new swear words when I try to put it down without dropping the fucker to the floor in a heap of splintered wood.

******* Or, "exorcising," a term I coined for exercise the day after a night of heavy drinking. I should write for Men's Health.

******** I'd make the best doctor in the world, I'm convinced. "Doc, give it to me straight," Patient X says, and I say, "Drew, you don't have long to live. Some crazy-ass weird shit is blocking blood flow to your heart. Wanna get in a game of Scrabble while there's still time left?"