(Preface: I don’t mean badass as in uber douchenozzle Cool Hand Luke; I mean badass as in strong, hard and masculine.)
I don’t know what the fuck an alcoholic really is. Obviously a person that can’t make it a day without alcohol in their system that’s lying around in their piss and vomit all day is not exactly the antithesis of an alcoholic, but there are so many vague, subjective definitions as to what an alcoholic really is that I’ve struggled to wrap my mind around who is or who isn’t.
Was my dad an alcoholic? I don’t know. He died at the age of 49 due to cirrhosis of the liver and renal failure. He drank every day, but his attitude and personality never, ever changed. To me, he was the best father in the world. There’s not another one in the world that’s better, y’know? But every day, he had a Jack and [Diet] Coke. And of course, he paid the price, dearly, at the end of his life. But I don’t think he was an alcoholic. When I think of the word “alcoholic”, I think of families being ruined, and I think of a bum. My dad was not, and I loved my life as a kid. No families ruined here. Just a lot of pain when he passed. My dad came from nothing, a part of a family with seven brothers and two sisters, to making something out of himself: a successful business owner and all. He’s an inspiration to me.
The above has nothing to do with the rest of the post, other than yours truly trying to pinpoint what the fuck an alcoholic really is. Excuse my language, but expletives are my favorite word to use as a modifier and emphasizer. I guess, if you’ve been reading this blog, you’d be used to that by now.
Back in April and May 2010, despite all the bullshit that was going on with my ex-girlfriend Bekki and I, I was in pretty damn good shape. I drove myself to exert energy on a daily basis because I knew if I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. I would wake up at 6:30 or 7 in the morning (on my own volition), walk a couple of miles, run a mile and a half, shoot some basketball in the driveway and do some curls with some dumbbells.
I felt damn good, too. Even if my mind didn’t correlate. Physically I felt like a beast. I felt strong and full of energy even though my mind was taking a toll on me due to all of the overthinking I was doing.
I want to get back to that point. Not the overthinking or stress, or anything else from that time period. Just the physical shape I was in and the amount of physical work I was doing to get myself there. I’m too damn flabby nowadays, too soft, too fatigued all the time. A result of the combination of many things.
I wish I had Mark Wahlberg’s gym. It’s just an awesome setup. Check it out. It’s a secluded, private area. Nobody can randomly stalk you. You can do whatever the hell you want in the privacy of your own place. He has his own basketball court and look at all of that damn weightlifting equipment.
I’m jealous. Outside of technology like computers, gaming and having a TV, I’m not too much of a material guy. But having a private gym like that would be absolutely amazing. Especially that little basketball court.
Yo Mark, hook a brother up with all that cash you have, man.
But really, it sucks how lackadaisical I’ve been. That must change, and it will. I posted a picture of 43-year-old Dan Henderson the other day and made a point to mention how he’s in better shape than me tenfold. That’s sad, since I’m 22-years-old and should be bursting with testosterone-fueled energy ready to strengthen my body and wanting to fuck everything in sight (half-kidding about that second part). I’ve fallen prey to being sedentary.