Working out is all about setting achievable goals, and then gradually moving toward them.
A few years ago, I started off easy by lifting a feather once a day. After a few months of lifting the feather, it started to feel like lifting nothing at all, and soon I was able to lift two feathers with only some excruciating pain.
A few more months passed, and I could tell that my workout was having an effect: women would shout things at me on the street, like “Why are you holding two feathers?” and “I think the bird that the feathers came from is dead!”
Although I was feeling healthier and in better shape than I ever had in my life, I knew I could achieve greater things, so I decided to experiment with lifting even more. I went to a bookstore and picked up a book on weight lifting, but it broke my arm.
In the hospital, my doctor was impressed by the progress I had made—she could hardly believe my story about nearly lifting a book. I knew she was someone I could trust about bodybuilding because she kept casually lifting things like her stethoscope and my chart with minimal effort. I bet that, a long time ago, she also started off with a dead bird’s feathers, just like me.
Soon I was out of the hospital and, with my doctor’s approval, ready to lift again. Right before I had blacked out from the pain caused by attempting to lift the weight-lifting book, I’d noticed that the cover mentioned something called a “gym.” I figured that this might be a place where I could meet some fellow exercise fanatics, and perhaps exchange tips on getting big.
When I tried to sign up at the gym nearest to my apartment, the man at the front desk showed me a contract to sign, and offered me a pen. Obviously, this was some kind of test—if you can lift the pen, you are worthy of paying a hundred dollars a month to be in the club. Although I was worried that I might break my arm again, I focussed on what I wanted: to look as muscular as the man holding the pen and eying me strangely because I was quivering so much.
I thought my whole body was going to give out from straining so hard, but at last I took the pen from him and signed the piece of paper.
After that, things moved very quickly. I lifted everything I could get my hands on—from the towels in the changing room to the empty cups by the water cooler. I even did a couple of reps with a bag once, until someone told me to stop lifting her bag.
I made a lot of friends in that gym. People gave me nicknames, like “That Guy Holding a Towel,” and “Dude.”
Soon I knew I would be able to step into the big leagues and use what they called a “machine.” I’d heard some people refer to other people as machines, and I figured that using a machine must be the way to become one.
It turned out that you were actually meant to use the machine to lift more weights, and that there were no bionics involved. “Lame,” I thought. I had really wanted to become a machine. But how?
That’s when I started to drink the sweat of the people they called “machines.” At first it made me feel a bit ill, but then it made me feel seriously ill, so I stopped.
There had to be a better way.
Sadly, there wasn’t. I determined that I just had to drink all their sweat, even though it made me feel seriously ill. But it feels great to accomplish a goal!
