Where Are My Toes, Seriously.

In the hope of lessening the "pizza region" on my body, I recently went and lifted weights. They are as heavy as I remember them, and in some cases, way heavier. My toes, in a totally unexplainable feat of nature, are getting farther away. When coaching gymnastics years ago and tossing my body around much like one would a ragdoll, my toes were at the bottom of my reach. I could flatten my palms there to the right and left of my toes and exhale quietly, feeling blood flow and muscles in my legs and back move around quickly to accommodate my wish to touch my own feet.

It is different now.

My arms have gotten shorter. My legs have gotten longer. My back - I don't even want to guess what has happened to my back, but it doesn't work anymore. And as for quiet exhaling, what a thing of the past that has become. From the standing position I begin by bending at the waist. The key is to keep my knees straight as it is they and the muscles of my legs that I am attempting to loosen in some fashion. As my torso passes the 90 degree right angle and closes the margin towards my thighs, not only do my knees bend slightly but a noise like that of being hit in the chest with an aluminum baseball bat comes forth from my mouth and my eyes close.

I'm certain this is a call to arms for the young men and women who make their living teaching people like me how to touch my toes again.

"Uuuuugh. Ooooooh. Ehhhhh."

"Sir, are you interested in personal training?"

"Ooough?"

When left alone, the stretch will quickly turn into my moving each of my feet to a very wide stance so that my palms once again lie flat on the floor. Having achieved the desired result, looking flexible enough to "palm the floor", I can move on to stretching my groin which has attained the spring-like elasticity of a broken thigh master. Sitting on the floor with my feet pressed together, in what comically goes by the Butterfly stretch, I must physically push the insides of my knees apart. This also hurts, both my ego and my back, legs, groin, arms, fingertips, ears nose and throat.

Suffice it to say, the hibernation period in Maui has left me tight as a knot and with the beginnings of a beach belly - that distended but beautifully tanned thing that protrudes from an unbuttoned Aloha shirt when silly rich men wander the decks of their yachts with a $12 bottles of imported beer. Problem of course is that I'm 27, not retired, and do not consider this robust-body quality to accurately proclaim satisfied wealth and lifestyle. I consider it to be that I'm getting lazy and thus, fat.

Also the bottom hem of my t-shirts wave free in the wind as if hanging over a clothesline. Do I buy bigger t-shirts? Do I begin what I should rightfully call my Paternity Wear Clothing Line "For Men Who've Given Up Trying To Look Or Feel Good. Sizes XL - 5XL"

"Are you tired of being able to walk seven or eight stairs in a row? Are you just flabbergasted that running ten miles doesn't even knock the wind out of you? Can you perform in bed without cramping in eight to ten different muscle groups? Have we got a system for you! In no time at all, six months or less, you can look and feel horrible! Your body image will plummet! Your self-esteem will become subterranean! Your toes will get so far away you'll have to fasten your velcro with a mechanical claw at the end of your doctor prescribed cane! Stop exercising, eat shit that is bad for you at all hours of the day and you too will feel and look disgusting in no time!"

I think I took that too far. I have some sit ups to do, but I will try to feel better about myself one day at a time - perhaps soon I'll be able to change my own clothes or take a shower with the light on again. In the meantime I'll just melt some dark chocolate on this fat-free caramel rice cake, maybe have a diet coke. I hear there's good tv on until morning so I should be set.