|11-10-2011, 12:34 PM||#1|
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Whence instinct V
He would watch the other soldiers lift piles of metal repeatedly while Afghan men stood by preparing to do the menial work they’d acquired. They had escorts. Alex wasn’t just waiting his turn to take part in the ritual of weight lifting, he was thinking about what it meant. He is, after all, my son.
He says, “The Afghans were there to actually work.”
After I lie down on the bench I stare at the bar for a while. I doubt that there’s any instinct to lift weights, but if I don’t do this often enough I feel a sense of guilt that I haven’t been able to shake for thirty years.
What I must overcome is my desire for comfort, for an absence of pain and my continual doubts about my remaining strength. I know I’m no longer going to see any larger numbers or feel any surges of unexpected power. That’s over.
I find that writing about behavior makes me acutely aware of some things. I wonder if it’s within me innately, when I’ve learned it, when I’ve given in to our culture’s demands and when I need to alter its expression for my own good.
I lie there and think about all this, and then I lift.
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