I have heard people talk about their natural highs or ways to release endorphins and help improve their moods. However, and I have to admit that in all fairness, I never believed these things.
I never believed in the so-called natural highs, at least not as much as I believed in the chemical recipes. I admit to being skeptical or maybe I was just the cynical one who never imagined that something like this could work.
And could it?
I was someone who enjoyed the immediate fixes, which come in all forms and sizes. This is not limited to drugs or alcohol or any of the common elixirs we usually think about.
Take food for example.
Food is a drug. Food is comforting and for a while, food can touch the senses and allow us to slip off the deep end. This can be a great escape when it comes to some of our tasty favorites. Yes, I can attest to this. I can attest to the food binges where I sat and enjoyed the gluttony like a madman with his last meal.
I can recall times when I’d lose myself in meals and I ate so much and became so full that I found myself in the tired state of a food coma. In other words, I was narcotized and altered into a mindless state which was both soothing and disgusting at the same time.
Ah, the meals. The food. The bellyaches after and the regretful hangover-like symptoms that come from an all-out food binge.
This is not to say that I do or do not fall off the wagon from time to time and eat more than my share.
I do. All the time.
However, and further away from some of my other addictions, I have managed to encounter a routine that works and keeps me from the regret after eating something like a sack of White Castle cheeseburgers.
Belly bombers . . .
To you or to anyone else — I find that it is necessary to act as some kind of public service announcement when I say please be mindful of the burgers you consumer and never eat more than ten double cheeseburgers from White Castles.
Trust me. Nothing good comes from this, and yes, I assume the people who live with you and share the same bathroom will agree. I think the bathroom might even agree with me as well.
So, always be careful with the White Castle double cheeses.
Now, with this being mentioned, I have listened to speakers talk about ways to counteract the effects of depression. I have heard and researched and listened to speakers discuss the topic of exercise and how this creates a physiological change in our body. I can attest to this.
I have tried this before.
I remember getting sore and achy.
Someone told me that this was the addictive part.
Funny though, I remember being confident that I could quit that part at any time.
But, I can attest to the feeling of accomplishment of being lazy and having to force myself to the gym.
I also relate to being more than 60lbs overweight, which is crazy to me because I was always painfully thin.
I was always the kid who could eat whatever and as much as I wanted. Yes, this was me.
No matter how much food I’d swallow, I’d swear that I could never gain an ounce.
By the way, this is one of the cruel jokes that age plays on us. But no one laughs.
This happens because age creeps up and also, the pounds seem to add without notice.
I remember looking at a picture and not recognizing myself. I looked at the photo and my eyebrows folded downward. My neck moved forward and my chin sort of pitched to the side, with a look of confusion or uncomfortable curiosity.
I remember thinking who the hell is that?
And then I realized, “Holy shit. . . That’s me!”
I ate my way into an unhealthy form. I was overweight and closing in on the fringes of obesity. At least, this is what the doctor told me after revealing the fact that I ate my way into type 2 diabetes.
Here is the problem.
I have never been comfortable in gyms. I was never the kind of person who made sure they went to the gym every day. I never had a workout regiment nor was I comfortable working out in front of people.
There have been spurts in my past where I did try a few different gyms where they ensured that their gym was judgment free.
I remember one place above all and how a young man, perhaps a kid in high school, a senior, I suppose. He was too good looking to the point where someone like him being in the same room was an insult to me. He wore a baseball hat that was fashionably tilted to the side and there were pieces of his cool haircut sticking out from the side of his hat.
He wore a tank top that showed off all of his muscles.
He had a body that was unreal. He was fit, young, and in the most incredible shape.
No kid deserves to be this good looking.
No kid at all.
But, this kid was that good looking. This kid approached me while I was experiencing a personal victory.
I was able to move well on an elliptical machine and push myself a little faster. I was working on my cardio, and I was on the machine longer than ever before. This was a personal best for me, which means that I was feeling proud of myself.
By the way, these machines are all high-tech with high-tech features on them, or more importantly for this occasion, this machine monitored heart rates to ensure a safe and healthy workout.
In comes the young kid.
What a dick!
He approached me from the side and smiled politely. He pointed to the numbers where the machine displayed my heart rate.
The kid said, “Excuse me, Mister?”
I slowed my pace, ever so slightly to notice the young man. I also noticed the way I was regarded as “Mister,” as if I were an old man just out of the old folk’s home and excited to have stewed carrots for dinner. He called me mister as if I needed to be comforted in a rocking chair with a blanket and a pair of Velcro shoes.
Keep in mind, I am a heavily tattooed man. I weighed approximately 70lbs more than I do now. I was experiencing that so-called natural high that I heard people talk about.
The young man offered me a suggestive tip.
He said, “Better watch your heart rate. You can have a heart attack,” and then he walked away.
I assumed that perhaps this is why gym owners prefer customers do not bring weapons or their firearms to the gym with them. I assume the idea that this was a so-called judgment free gym was a load of horse shit.
But what I recall most is how the warning lingered in the air, as if to point out that as good as I thought I was doing, I wasn’t doing quite as well as I thought.
I immediately slowed down, and then I came to a stop on the machine.
Then I wiped down the machine, as requested by management.
I put my towel over my shoulder. I proceeded to go outside, get in my car, and then I went out to get a burrito . . .
Similar to the bullied memories of being either too small, too thin, or too fat as I moved into the later part of my life, I never assumed that this would be me.
I never thought that I would reach this physical level in my life, and as a man in his 50’s, I never thought that I would be able to keep this bill of health.
I will say this was a difficult journey.
Worthwhile, but difficult.
Now, with that being said, I have to call out the challenges and difficulties.
I love fast food. I love slow food too. In fact, I love all foods.
I can eat with the best of them. I can eat like I have two stomachs or, as my Father, The Old Man used to say about big eaters, I can eat like I have two assholes.
I love food.
I love all kinds of food.
However, I admit that it was hard to stop eating my favorite comfort foods. There were times when I was eating whole grains or eating some kind of dietary snack. I remember hating the flavors.
At some point the flavor of these foods (or lack of) made me miss being fat.
I completely admit to this.
I have worked up a new routine for myself. I am not who I used to be. I have bouts of insecurity, and I have moments when my depression gets the better of me.
However, I have the gym. I have this journal, and I have you.
Or, so I hope.
I have the transfer that takes place when replacing thoughts with action. While, I admit that I do not get the same narcotic effects that come with the obvious drugs, I can say that my highs last longer and my body performs better than ever before.
Someone at the gym asked me how old I was.
This happened just the other day.
His reaction was as follows:
“Wow. 52, huh?”
Then he nodded and told me, “I didn’t think you were that old . . .”
I know there was a compliment in there, somewhere.
Backhanded as ever.
But still, I know this was supposed to be a compliment, nonetheless.
I had a college kid say this to me in Jiu-Jitsu class once.
The good part about this is that I was allowed to express my appreciation to him, quite fast, and quite physically too.
This is Old Man Jiu-Jitsu Lesson #1 for young beginners.
Never talk shit to the old guy who’s been rolling around before you.
He can kill you with a smile. Or at minimum, he can punish you with a smile and make you understand that “oops, I probably shouldn’t have said that to him.”
To close my thought for today, this makes me wonder what happened to that kid who told me to watch my heart rate.
I hope he is well, wherever he is.
And if he’s not, I hope he chooses to find Jiu-Jitsu—specifically a class that I am in, just so I can help him get acclimated . . .
of course.
The Written Addiction 