When I was 16, I started working out at the YMCA. I used the treadmill and I went on a routine through almost every muscle group in the body. After a year, I had lost 10 pounds to become a svelte 175 lbs. (it wasn’t a goal of mine, I actually wanted to bulk up a little and gain weight) but I was about three times as strong as when I’d started. I didn’t look much stronger, but I could feel it. I surprised the heck out of myself when I did 2 pull-ups on a whim at age 17. I had never been able to do a pull-up with my 6’4″ frame weighing me down before.

That was a long time ago. Now at the age of 30, my joints are feeling more achy, and they’re wanting to pop all the time. My muscles feel sore sometimes for no reason at all. I admit I haven’t been exercising, but it’s difficult to get excited about starting when you wake up feeling tired in the morning. So what does this have to do with writing?

Well, maybe nothing of course. This is a journal after all. However, as I mentioned in this same journal, I feel the need to write. Like anything else, if you don’t exercise and use your abilities at whatever level they exist at, they may start to decline. I don’t want to get rusty at writing any more than I already have, so here I am, jazzercising on WordPress.

I’m going to try to do physical exercise again, though. Surely I shouldn’t feel so old and tired at the age of 30. I’m not even halfway done with my life. If I keep going this way, how will I feel when I’m 40 or 50? No, I dread to think. I must exercise between here and there. I can’t reverse the aging process, but I could darn well enjoy it and slow it down a little.

the morning stretch

a cascade of pops goes down my back,
left, right,
like a waterfall of little rocks easing the ache.
then the elbows, sometimes the shoulders,
joining in with the percussion section
the knees, of course,
loud and sharp to make themselves heard above the din
the muscles stretch taut like a violin
good-natured complaints like an old joke among friends.
Then, always to my surprise,
the sternum lets its own quiet note go
and I feel I have somehow been violated
that some places should never pop.
Sighing, I flex my toes with a chorus of cracks
and force myself to sit up.


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