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I had an epiphany on Saturday night. I was no longer the two sport athlete I used to be. No longer could I run a few miles with ease. No longer could I move mountains with my tree trunk legs. I was a shell of my former self. It was depressing to say the least, and not because I wanted to run train on opposing defenses. See, this epiphany didn’t happen while I was on the basketball court or playing in a pickup football game. No, this happened while I was in the sack with my girlfriend.
As I laid there out of breath and wondering if I should ask for CPR or an oxygen mask, I grasped for the water glass on the nightstand only to find it empty. I pondered if anyone had ever died from having sex because their lungs couldn’t keep up with the work they were putting in. Might it have helped if I wasn’t the one doing all the work? Maybe, but I’m a blue collar guy, and I just put on my hard hat and get to work. The sad thing about this whole situation? I hadn’t even finished yet. My mind was telling me to “go go go,” but my body was telling me to sit the next few quarters out. It was at that point that I made the conscience thought that my sex life was dwindling because I had failed to work out.
But how could it be? How could the mighty have fallen so hard? And why was this so important? Let me tell you, fellas, there’s no more embarrassing and downright awful feeling than looking in a girl’s eye and telling her you didn’t finish because you physically cannot keep going. Whether you are overweight or what people call “skinny-fat,” it’s demoralizing and damn-near emasculating. And I had no one to blame but myself — which was the most frightening thought.
I’ll admit that the last few months have seen a drop off in my gym attendance, but that’s not my fault. Company happy hours, late work nights, and the brunch buffet/bottomless mimosa combo have led to higher priorities. I have never really needed the gym in my life. Sure, if I’m hitting it hard four or five days a week and not eating terrible, I’m 100 percent pure sex. Seeing as I tend to not wreck my body during the week with terrible food — that’s reserved for the weekends — I didn’t deem it necessary to decide whether to wake up at 5 a.m. or risk going after work. Here’s the deal with that dilemma: the right choice is always the morning workout because after a day of mindless calls, boring meetings, and Gary from accounting talking about whatever family function they are doing this weekend, your mind just isn’t prepared to throw weights around after that kind of mental beatdown.
As I woke up this morning at 5 a.m., it took every ounce of my body not to press that snooze button and sleep in until 6. But I conquered my inner-voice and stumbled out of bed and into the gym where I clocked in at a 7:30 mile (pretty average time for me, but I struggled to the end). Every time I wanted to quit, I just kept telling myself, “keep going little buddy, your other little buddy depends on it.”.