My buddy Mike recently dropped a meme in my feed humorously highlighting the disconnect between how old we feel vs how old we are. It was uncannily accurate. While I can readily acknowledge the fact I was not a candidate for Seal Team 6, in my 20s I was a carb fueled, sweat cooled machine who could do three mile runs in combat boots after pulling an all-nighter. Even into my 30's, a couple of knucklehead coworkers and I go it into our heads we should start training to run the Marine Corps Marathon taking place in less than a month. Unknown to us, Fate was benevolent when we learned entry into the race was on a lottery basis, and we'd missed the deadline.
These days, I get out of bed carefully, making sure all systems are primed and in working order. Otherwise, some gears don't properly mesh or a critical system isn't properly warmed up and suddenly - boom. Klaxons start blaring and pain receptors light up like a car's dashboard full of flashing idiot lights.
For his part, Mike was always pretty buff and a lifelong gym rat. Back in school he was already in trainer mode and was annoyingly successful in cajoling others and myself into different training regimens he'd come across. Back in the day, he even became a professional gym rat who worked at Golds Gym, rubbing oversized shoulders with the likes of Rich Gaspari and telling guys our age now how to lose the "dad bod".
We were able to meet up earlier this summer to share a few beers at a Coastal watering hole. I paused as soon as I crossed the threshold to size up the joint since it was my first time there. It had a cool industrial theme going and an impressive list of beers on tap. Mike had already bellied up to the counter, scanning the available beers on the chalkboard above the bar.
Mike: "Dammit."
Me: "What's up, man?"
Mike: "It's too far away. I can't make out the menu."
After a bit of back and forth describing the available pours, we had the first round in hand. Heading to a nearby table, we were laughing at each other as we both let out audible groans as we lowered ourselves onto the bench seats.
What proceeded was an incredibly easy conversation, seemingly picking up where we last left off. We talked of family, jobs, and, of course, hijinks and shenanigans both witnessed and perpetrated during school and growing up around the neighborhood. Then we got around to comparing aches and pains. As we both unfurled our lists of infirmities, I couldn't help but shake my head and smile. "My god," I mused, "how did we get here?"
What we'd started to lay out three rounds in weren't complaints, rather just a recounting of facts, like soldiers detailing how we got the various scars on our bodies. The aches and pains we carried were the result of honest, purpose driven lives, and we regretted nothing.
And neither of us is through living la vida loca just yet. After a brief absence, Mike is reclaiming his gym rat creds, working on endurance and upping his cardio training. As for me, I've surprised myself by transitioning from regular walks to short runs and, very much to my amusement, starting yoga.
It may be a hot minute before either of us is benching 300 again, but I don't think we're doing too badly for a couple of guys with five decades of hijinks and shenanigans under our belts.
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