Brian Freedman (Philadelphia, USA): "Adventures in Weightlifting"
Logic plays a role that is best described as supporting in the life of a thirteen-year-old boy; and when hormones are thrown into the mix, there’s just no telling what sort of strange things might happen. This most unfortune fact of teenage life now manifested itself in an ugly, and ultimately uncomfortable way. I awoke the day of the concert with a jolt. My eyes snapped open to glimpse a world grown suddenly urgent in light of the dream I had just suffered through. In it, Ali and I were sitting at the concert with Sylvester Stallone, who had somehow gotten hold of her third ticket. And despite the truly studly outfit I was wearing, she spent the entire showing hanging onto his left biceps, staring into his hangdog eyes, and asking if they could take a shower together. In the background, the New Kids played only one song, and not even one they wrote— Berlin’s "Take My Breath Away," a tune made famous in one of the biggest hits of the Eighties (Top Gun).
It all made sense, of course. The scene in that movie that all the women in the entire world— or, actually, solar system— were talking about, was the one in which Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis made slow-motion love, on her perfectly disheveled sheets, as that song drones on in the background. And in that scene, there is a lingering shot of Tom’s arms, as he lowers himself on top of Ms. M, with a grace and slowness that would’ve been worthy of an East German Olympic gymnast. I now realize that this was a manifestation of issues I had with myself, with my own 105 pound frame; but at the time, at that first event-date time, I knew only one thing— I had to get bigger, bulked up, by the time that evening rolled around.
After I got out of bed, I ate, and worked out, and ate some more, and worked out some more, and repeated the process far too many times to count— against everything I knew, against everything my father had taught me about weightlifting. The post-dream desperation had clouded my vision so much, as had actually caused me to believe that I could bulk up to Stallone-like, or at least Cruise-like, proportions, in a matter of seven hours. The reality, though, was much more embarrassing. “Bri,” my Mom called up at about three in the afternoon, “are you in the bathroom again?” “Yeah,” I shouted weakly, breathlessly, “I’ll be down in a minute.” I was dying, I thought. Had I known the word cholera, I’m sure it would’ve crossed my mind. My stomach was tied into enough knots to make an Eagle-scout proud. My muscles were fatigued to the point of near-paralysis. And in two hours, I had a date!
Great planning— I had spent the entire morning and early afternoon cramming as much protein-rich food down my gullet as possible, hoping that at least some of it would find it’s way to my unacceptably small biceps and pecs. But there was no such luck in the offing that day, and those cans of tuna had found there way through my system and right into the toilet. Combine that with three full-blown work-outs, and my body was staging what felt like a coup d’etat against itself. Three flushes later, I somehow made my way to my room, got hold of the date outfit I had used on the previous year’s excursion to the movies with a girl named Alannah (stone-washed jeans, button-down Bugle Boys shirt, black penny-loafers), and limped my way down the stairs, bow-legged.
“Don’t say a word,” I said to my father as I walked past him in the living room. He was shaking his head and snorting silently. He didn’t have to say anything— I knew what was implied. He was right. “Have fun,” he said in a mocking sing-song. As I walked towards the kitchen, the sound of a horn echoed from the driveway.
© Brian Freedman 2004
