by Don Hall

“What’s the hardest machine in this place?” I asked.

”Stairmaster. That thing levels hardened body builders,” he answered in between sets.

I got on. I set the machine to Level 1 of 20 and started climbing those stairs. I made it exactly three minutes before my heart exploded and I hit the pause button. “Christ,” I thought as I heaved huge wallops of air into my burning lungs. “I’m really out of shape. I will best this motherfucker if it’s the last thing I do.”

When I was forty years old, I lost eighty pounds and got my ass in shape.

I did it out of pure vanity. It came all at once one Christmas that I wasn’t funny or charming enough to be a fat guy in the world, so I joined a gym, ate half of what I’d normally eat, and took two years or so to trim my 265 lb sack of pizza-infused cheese body to a more manageable shape.

For the most part, in the ensuing fourteen years, I’ve kept it off. Sure, once I reached my goal weight, I slacked off the working out some and probably ate more than I needed but, overall, I’ve only gained about 15 of those 80 back.

At fifty-four, the game has changed. My metabolism has slowed down so far fewer calories tend to mean more weight gain. I don’t quite have the energy to throw myself at the gym like I did a decade ago. My gut keeps creeping out of the bottom of my (granted, pretty old) t-shirts.

A lot of this is inconsequential. I’m still vain but far less so. I no longer weigh myself every single day, naked, at 5am. I no longer worry so much about looking good “for the ladies” because I am happily married.

I now go to the gym to continue to remain mobile, physically able, and still manage to fit into my pants. I work these older muscles out of a need for meditation in a body that is either going full steam or sleeping — sort of a zero or 90 miles an hour but not much in between. I try to stay in shape because my wife didn’t marry a toad.

Along those lines, I had to recognize that, while I could go in and bust out some heavy lifting, some serious resistance machines, and slam an hour on the stairmaster, I can’t do it every morning. The recovery time has grown as the rings in my core have expanded.

Along the way I started to embrace the grace of recovery over the gains of productivity.

It’s a subtle reframing. Taking that break in between isn’t defined by laziness or weariness. That break has been earned. 

I read once (or maybe saw a TedTalk video) that taking your vacation days at regular intervals is one way to be more productive. I like the idea that the grace of recovery can help you in the long run along your path.

Reading news online is taxing. Take a break once in awhile.
Binging on Netflix can be exhausting. Give it a rest and savor the unknown.
Take a fucking nap already.
Earn those times when you check out for a bit but take them often.

There is a quiet longing inside each of us for moments of peace and relaxation. Listen to that every now and then.