The temps are dropping out here in the Valley of the Sun. So just before my 1:00 am run I step out into my courtyard to gauge my clothing requirements for the daily five miler. I like it nice and chilly but I need something besides shorts and a wife beater.
So I grab a polo shirt I haven’t worn all summer and start to pull it over my head. It’s tight. Very tight. So tight I think I missed an arm in the process of putting it on. But I didn’t. Uh, oh.
Once I pull it completely down over my torso, panic sets in. A light coat of flop sweat starts to glisten on my body. I rip it off and step on the scale. Shit, I think, as I digest the digital readout. I’m up six pounds. How can this be?
I average 20,000 steps a day on my Fitbit, I ride at least 20 miles a day on my bike and I never consume more than 3,000 calories a day. I feel betrayed.
I don’t feel like running now because it’s senseless. If I’m going to kick my own ass every day but my body still does what it wants by storing fat, what’s the use?
Mortally confused now, I head to the full length mirror in my bedroom. I quickly launch into my goofy, naked double bicep pose. As my muscles fill with blood, I think,“Geez, I’m starting to look like those guys in the magazines. Too bad I’m so fat.”
This is not the way I like to start my day.
My litmus test is a pair of 34 inch dress pants I kept from my sales days. I slide them on in gloomy anticipation. They’re tight, but only in the quads. The waist has play. I can fit my fist in between my belly and my belt buckle. (Why would I do that?)
Hmmm, I slide the polo on again to re-assess my damage. It’s still tight, but in all the right places. In the arms, the chest and the upper back but not in the belly. My delts feel like they’re trying to blow off my shoulder girdle.
Wow! It looks like I have packed on a bunch of muscle over the summer. Time to call central casting.
You would think this kind of muscle growth isn’t possible for a man in his mid-seventies. Or is it?