I'd like to thank everyone who indulged me by allowing me the opportunity to vent the other day. I didn't really mean to mount the pity pot, and I sure as hell wasn't fishing for compliments, but I do want to say thank you to all of you who were so kind and so full of positive reinforcement.
While I thought I had put forward an honest assessment of how I was dealing or not dealing, as the case may be, with incipient old age, it seems what resonated most was the fact that I thought my drawing power was diminishing.
It's a fact. It is.
Does it matter in the long run? Absolutely not. I'm not the type to cry over old photo albums, mourning my lost youth. I don't have any photo albums, anyway. I've led a remarkably undocumented life, photograph-wise, which seems rare in this day and age. And if I keep forgetting my sexy little Canon SD-450 camera, it looks like this trend will continue.
As I've mentioned before, I have whole-heartedly embraced the person I've become. After all, I am Superdaddy (thank you Teddy, wherever you are), and I will defend that title to the death, or at least on-coming senility.
To that end, I did what any other self-respecting middle-aged gay man would do. I hired a trainer. Again. It's been a few years since I've worked out with a trainer. I hadn't actively thought about doing this. In fact, I was trying to avoid doing it. But I was approached a couple of Sundays ago while sitting on a Nautilus machine by Evaristo, a clever trainer-on-the-go, who offered a free workout with him. It seemed serendipitous, and I took him up on his offer. We worked out this past Sunday, and may I say that two days later everything still hurts? Big time. I'm shocked. I hit the gym three or four times a week, and clearly, I'm just massaging my muscles much the way Japanese farmer massage their Kobe cattle. I'm just been pushing the fat around. This man killed me. We did mostly floor work on the mat, and some stuff with cables. I was out of breath and scarlet in no time, sweat running off me like a river. So I hired him. I'm seeing him twice a week for the next 2-1/2 months. My goals are simple. I just want to fit into my old clothes. I have a small fortune invested in tight t-shirts. And it wouldn't hurt if I was happy with the way I look in a wife beater by the time I head to Provincetown.
Shallow? Who? Me?