No, I’m not the “I pick things up, I put things down” antagonist from Planet Fitness commercials of Yesteryear. Instead, I look like someone in pretty good shape but not near gracing the cover of Muscle & Fitness magazine.

Wow, that’s commitment! you may think.
Where do you get your motivation?

I could deliver a hero’s origin story that has the potential to inspire.

Instead, I will admit I had few false starts.

Around age twelve, I got my first weight set. It included only a barbell and two dumbbells, but it also came with around a hundred pounds of vinyl—yes, vinyl-covered plates filled with sand. I used it about as much as the Tyco train set, which never steamed out of its box.

In high school, I joined my first gym. I was a reasonably skinny teen, and between sophomore and junior year, I put breast meat on my ribs and a bit of muscle on my wings. If ‘swole’ was used back then, it would not have been pointed in my direction.

From eighteen to thirty, I worked out sporadically. I seesawed between bigger muscles and a larger beer belly (classic—when I put on weight, it all goes to the gut).

Thirty-one should have marked my steadfast commitment to working out.

Courtney–I was in love with her, or so I thought. It’s odd when you look back on previous relationships and can’t say why another so deeply enamored you.

Courtney and I started our relationship in Manhattan in an office building on Park Place and 33rd. She, an intern; me, an aspiring, young account executive with a penchant for not giving a rat’s about promotional marketing. We were both from Jersey, so we stayed together when I left The City to don a medical education/medical promotion hat. That was, of course, until the day she told me she had a Peter Pan complex, didn’t want to grow up, and dumped me (for about six months).

Back together and with an engagement ring in hand (she picked it out), I presented it to her in London (a vacation I paid for) and was told, “Not yet.” This was coupled by zero sex (so much for joining “The Other Side of the Pond Club”). You’ll be shocked to read that Courtney dumped me weeks after successfully touching down on a runway at what was then known as Newark Airport.  That was on a Sunday.

I arrived at work Monday and told my boss I had to leave early. I didn’t include “to drive to the Manasquan Inlet, go to the end of the jetty, slit my wrists, and fall into the Atlantic when I fell forward losing consciousness.” Romance is a bitch. I left work with my plan in hand and a blade in my armrest. As I drove south on the NJ Turnpike past scenery from The Sopranos, I thought, “Fuck this! I’m joining a gym (again)!”

That inspiration lasted for about a year, then I was on again/off again through dating, marriage, becoming a father, getting divorced, and reconnecting with my HS girlfriend (shelf life was shorter than most pastas).

When my daughter, Ruby Soho, was in 7th grade, we moved from Wall’s far side to the Belmar one. For years, I hadn’t slept well, but I started to rarely stay a-snooze past 5am.

Being up early was annoying, boring, and constricting, as you wanted to do things that would wake up the house. After about a week, I found a gym in a neighboring town open 24-7 (this was rare as it was before Planet Fitness opened centers both hither and yon).So, I started hitting the gym between 4 am and 5 am and have continued that daily practice for the past decade.

Where do I get my motivation? I don’t. None is required. Morning workouts are routine; it’s second nature at this point.

Why do I work out? My circadian rhythm is a huge part of it. Besides that, it’s more for my mind than my body (I have more than one diagnosis in the DSM-5-TR including, but not limited to, depression and ADHD), trying to present younger than my age (now who’s got Peter Pan Syndrome), and having no desire to experience those health conditions that are associated with being out of shape and compounded by time.

I wake up, get ready, and depart for the gym on autopilot. My mornings are so “lather, rinse, repeat,” I never think, Maybe I should skip the gym today. Whether for work or pleasure, whenever I travel, I ensure a hotel gym (file all, regardless of the properties’ star ratings under ‘meh’ ) or a Planet Fitness nearby. If I can’t workout in the a.m. due to time in the air or on the road, I’m thrown off for the day, but nine times out of ten, I’ll get some reps in before I call it a day.

It’s funny: I cannot gauge my physicality. I don’t see myself as muscular. I’m also one of the few at the gym who is not drawn to mirrors like a moth to a flame.

Females, unfortunately, deal with body issues to the point that it seems to be almost ‘normal’ or, even more sadly, a rite of passage. Yes, as a man, I know that males, collectively – especially in almost any industry where a woman can be objectified and potentially degraded –  are largely to blame.

I’ve read that adolescent males increasingly have similar issues due to the negative impact of social media (worse for young women, I’m sure). Do other men in their fifties (adults, in general) also deal with this? If I’ve learned anything during my time on this earth, whatever I’m dealing with that I think is unique isn’t. On Thursday, I’ll ask my therapist if body dysmorphia should be added to my menu and how common it is in men.

I get ‘cop’ more than ‘personal trainer’. I have had women tell me I have a great body; I don’t see it. I’m glad I can’t. A few weeks ago, a younger guy in much better shape (and, damn him, he was taller with a lion’s mane of hair) whom I had never spoken to before said to me, “Yeah, we just look like assholes to everyone else” – I took it as a compliment.

I don’t feel fifty-six (which somehow presents younger written out). Jennifer’s a new friend, forty-six, in great shape, and that unique brand of friend is limited to a far too specific point on a map, which makes my  morning a little brighter
We’ve got the same kind of humor – light, innocent flirting meets ball-busting. The other day, she said something about people ‘our age’ followed by, “How old are you, anyway?”. When I told her, she responded, “You’re lying!” followed by, “I thought we were pretty much the same age.”

That compliment, and similar ones that I occasionally receive, is my favorite aspect of not being able to sleep.

 S. Barron Thompson has had several short pieces published  in print and/or online; seeds of several novels have been planted which require a bit of sunshine (a good mood) and water (sweat) to break ground.