In search of my feet

Page 4

About three-and-a-half years ago, I was doing a reading and lecture in, of all places, a college in North Bay, Ont. I do a lot of readings. It comes with being an author (and the simple fact that I have a hungry mortgage to feed). About a week later I saw a photograph of myself, taken at that reading, in a Native newspaper. That lone photograph ended up being perhaps one of the most expensive and painful things to happen in my life (except for one ex-girlfriend, but I won't get into that right now. That's a whole different column).

In that picture I was standing, reading from one of my books. It was a side shot, sort of a three-quarters body profile. It was also the first time I seriously noticed that I had a belly. I knew I was no longer the svelte boy who worked his way through college as a 168 lb.

Security/bouncer-type person in a school pub full of substantially more well fed football players. Another column.

But I had a belly. And jowls. I looked like my uncles. Not that I have anything against my uncles, but it just suddenly hit me that I was developing that familiar Ojibway deer gut (without the benefit of deer!) I was terrified that maybe, in keeping with the contemporary Ojibway male body progression, my legs were getting shorter and skinnier as my top half got larger.

That single picture made me realize I couldn't keep watching all the television I wanted between meals of neckbones, baloney sandwiches and vats of coke. Add the fear of a high rate of diabetes in my immediate family and something had to be done. So on that fateful day, I decided to join a gym. You've heard the term "scared straight?" Thus was born "scared skinny."

Oh, I'd joined gyms before, two or three times, but for some reason I just never stuck with it. One time I paid for a six months membership and never went once. I didn't have the motivation. Well, somewhere in the wilds of North Bay is a film negative that became my motivation.

Unlike my first forays into the world of calorie burning and groaning, I figured I'd better do this right. All those nights of watching television (between those neckbone and coke snacks of course), I kept hearing about movie stars hiring personal trainers. Everybody who's anybody was doing it and I definitely wanted to be a somebody. I figured I've written for television. I should have the right to hire a personal trainer.

Word of caution: They are expensive. But they can be worth it. I figure the amount of money I saved from buying neckbones and baloney would more than offset the cost of a personal trainer. So I learned the correct way to do everything. Even eat. I got to go from two meals a day up to five! Gotta love these personal trainers.

As an avid gym-going Indian, it has provided me with some unexpected adventures. With the amount of readings I do all over the place, I find myself in many different parts of the world. You will never know the pain of wandering the street of Whitehorse looking for a health club open on a winter Sunday. Basically, I can claim to have bench pressed from Happy Valley, Labrador, to Prince Rupert, British Columbia.

I like to kill two birds with one stone when I can (as long as the birds are lean and throwing the stone can give you a great lat and delt workout), so when in most gyms, I put on my social anthropologist jock strap and watch my fellow enthusiasts. The first thing you notice is that as a sport or leisure activity, working out is one of the most narcissistic activities you can find.

To prove this, you will notice all health clubs are lined with mirrors. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, shiny mirrors for all to look at themselves. I've seen men and women checking out their abs, their biceps, for several minutes at a time. A few short years ago, I couldn't help checking out my stomach, except that I was watching television at the time. I had to look over it to see the screen.

And there's that myth about health clubs being a great place to pick up chicks or guys), since everybody is in tight or revealing clothes and supposedly looking good. Not true. If there is a time in my life that I do not feel like picking somebody up, and this is keeping in mind that under no circumstances would I ever consider trying to pick somebody up, gym or no gym, no matter what anybody might tell my girlfriend, it is while I am at the gym. I am sweaty, tired, making unattractive faces with every weight I lift, grunting uncontrollably.

But this one time I did happen to accidentally glance at a girl in the gym. I remember saying to myself "she's really hot. Check out the delts on her. They're so nice and big. I wonder if they're real." It was then I realized I'd probably been working out too much.

It reminds me of a quote from George Bernard Shaw. I don't remember it exactly but it goes something like this. "When I die, I want to be all used up. I don't want to think that I had anything left to waste."

Another quote comes to mind. "Live fast. Die young. Leave behind a good looking corpse." I don't know who said that but I disagree. I think there's got to be a middle ground. Maybe someday I'll find it.

Perhaps it has something to do with putting a plate of neckbones on a small table in front of a treadmill. Beats the hell out of dangling a carrot.