The Rod Blog

26 April 2006

The Rippling Rod Pecs

In an earlier blog I complained about some of the indignities of one must endure with aging.
But I’m not doing too badly - I still have an impressive sixpack. It’s right there next to the frozen peas. But don’t complain to me, soldier this perfect physical physique doesn’t come without sacrifice. Up and down the pool, lap, lap, lap.

On a good day I drift into ‘the zone’. Way back in evolutionary history two bacteria decided to form a pair. Two instead of one, no one was going to pick on these dudes. Back off. Touch my mate, and you’ll have to deal with me too.
And so, over time, the pairs grew into gangs, and the gangs had the tough guys, the smart guys, and the guys who just hung round to make up the numbers.

The end of the lane, another lap. The muscle gangs work in time like little rowers in a Spanish galleon. Boom boom boom, in time. Their little heads are bobbing, and hence, my rippling pecs. Our bodies are these massive colonies of these little cooperating workers. And while this wondrous teamplay goes on, I contemplate the equally gigantic community of stuff in our heads. Lots of little voices all singing different parts, and yet we seem to hear a single tune. Or do we? Not always.

I have long been fascinated by the contractions built into each of us. The apparently incompatible facets of our personalities. The monster who will smile and smile, and be a villain. I dip my hand into the water. A smooth kick, breathe, and glide which is completely at odds with the ad hoc way I do some things. My bowling team partners told me I was way too stylish to be in their team. But they needn’t have worried. It’s one thing to bowl like a ballet dancer, and another to lift your score above mediocre (I didn’t).

So do you do this? One day you’re full of beans, and the life of the party. Another, you’re quiet, shy, and mope in the corner. The sharp-witted expert, firing off incisive remarks, or the slow dunce who’s lost the plot.

I’m joined in the lane by some slick super hero. He sails past effortlessly, and leaves me spinning like a dinghy in the wake of a supertanker. I’m sure his sixpack really is rippling, and I hate him with a passion. And when he’s not in the pool, he’s probably a complete dick. But it’s my final lap, and I put in one last spurt of effort for the day. Oh, look who it is. It’s Peter. Cool. Peter’s really cool, and I haven’t seen him in ages. We have a happy animated chat before I climb out of the pool.
I wander back to work hoping I’ll be the expert today, and not the dunce.


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