Training

The other day, a friend asked what body parts I was going to exercise in the gym.

I corrected him. I said I was going to Train my chest.

He asked if that wasn't simply the same as exercising my chest and I said "no."

To me, exercise is what an old lady does in front of the tv to a Jane Fonda video in hopes of working off a piece of cheesecake.

Training, however, involves commitment and a plan. I train. I meticulously track every set and chart progress. I look to see where I'm improving and where I'm lacking.

Training holds the expectation of improvement; a much higher expectation than mere exercise.

I accept that I may ache for days after, but still go in the next day to make another part of my body better.

Training means sacrificing time, sacrificing money for high quality food, staying hungry to cut to last few pounds of fat off the midsection.

Training is a lifestyle.

September 10

September 10 was my mother's birthday and I've been thinking about her a lot 
lately. 

 When I was about 13, she told me she was leaving my father. Their relationship 
had been rocky for years and it was obvious that she was unhappy. 

But there were signs much earlier...

When I was 7, she "ran away from home;" with me in tow. She went to Carolina 
Beach, rented a cottage, and we stayed there for a few days. 

I remember clearly eating hamburgers and instant mashed potatoes while she cried 
a lot and didn't talk. 

 Even at my young age, I think I saw the end of my parents relationship. I 
wondered if I'd live with my mother or my father. I didn't know which would be 
worse. 

 But they got back together after a few days. She used a pay phone to call my 
father. From the car, I watched the tears and her mouth form words that I 
couldn't hear. 

 The next morning, my father showed up and drove us home; my older brother 
driving my father's car. 

 But they didn't divorce when I was 13. Soon after the talk, the doctors found a 
tumor for which she had surgery. 

My father stayed by her bedside and waited on 
her diligently while she recovered. 

 Soon after, he went for a routine physical and the doctor found what he thought 
might be cancer. He went into cancer treatment, which kept him alive for years.

 My mother couldn't leave him after a cancer diagnosis. She was very concerned with how things looked 
and she couldn't leave a dying man no matter how much she despised him. 

 I know this sounds calloused and I shouldn't paint such an ugly picture the day 
before the anniversary of my mother's birth. 

 But I've been thinking about her...