Too fat to live, too lazy to die

Grunt. Heave. Moan. Groan. Shuffle. Collapse. Breath. Sweat. Repeat.

Pain radiates across back. Simple exercises stymied. Deadlift. 75 pounds. Standing ring rows. Step up and balance. Walk.

Made two rounds. Tried to grind. Failed.

“What hurts?” Nate asks.

Back. Low. Pain radiates out from spin like signals from a TV tower.

“What movement hurts worst?” Nate asks.

Walk. No, deadlift. No, ring rows. No, steps. Damn. All of it. Keeps getting worse.

Nate taps me on shoulder. “Let’s spend the rest of our time getting that back loose.”

I’m sad. Don’t want to quit on a workout. Nate brings wisdom.

“What we’re doing here should challenge your cardio, but it shouldn’t be painful,” he says. “Your grinding every rep. It keeps getting worse. It’s not going to get better. I’ve been there. It sucks.”

Catch breath. Nate takes me through series of stretches to loosen the back. Hang from tall bar.

Stand. Twist at waist.

Sit. Dangle arms between legs bent forward.

OK. Let’s try a walk.

Wow. That was better.

Let’s try some steps. Just regular steps. Not balance stuff.

Not bad.

OK. Take another walk.

End of workout.

Stride better, easier than when I arrived.

My body is broken down. Sore back. Balmy knees. Tender heels.

Obese. Morbidly obese. Ashamed. So very ashamed.

Did so well. Fell so far. Gained so much weight. See my reflection. Revolted.

Afraid to go to venues. Fear chair destruction. It happens. Fear ass to wide for chair. Happens. All. The. Time.

Hide. Let no one see Beowulf. Monstrous mound of flesh.

Workout blues. Try to stay positive. Try to accept every step counts.

Nate: “All movement counts.”

This the shot. Nate knows the game.

He knows the human game. He encourages. He explains. He helps.

Hard to ask for help. Hard to accept to help.

He gives so much. He helps me find hope when all I see is failure.

I love that man.

With love and hope, dpf

Published by Daniel P. Finney

Daniel P. Finney is a professional paragraph stacker who grew up in Winterset and Des Moines, Iowa. The local newspaper paid him $25 for his first story when he was 17. He has typed for cash ever since. He is a flawed human trying to be a little less Incredible Hulk and a little more Mr. Rogers.

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