A Little Bit of Gas

I was thinking this weekend of a story, or really two that fit together really well, that happened to me years ago, and that in some ways could be a metaphor for how we should live in relation to one another in this world.  At the risk of the inevitable giggles from the title overpowering a moving story, I give you, "A Little Bit of Gas."

Years ago, when I was in the life insurance industry, I had hit a very slow point in my sales.  I still needed to put gas in my car, but I still had some time before pay day, and the gas was needed right then and there.  At the gas station, I was counting out change to try to get enough together for at least a half tank.  A gentleman (in the truest sense of the word) had stopped in to get a paper and a snack as well as some gas for himself, when he saw me counting coins.  "Getting change together for gas?  I've been there myself," he said with true understanding in his voice.  He put down money, I had thought just to pay for his stuff, and left without saying much more.  I was too caught up in how low I was feeling emotionally and financially to notice the money he left included a few dollars for me to be able to get a little more.  When the guy behind the counter pointed that out, I felt ashamed that in feeling sorry for myself, I had missed the good deed the man had done and hadn't thanked him.  As I pumped my gas, I felt reassured things would get better, but still felt a horrible guilt for not acknowledging a good deed done to me.  I promised if I ever ran across someone in the same situation, I would do the same.

Fast forward a few years, with me married and living in New Jersey.  I had just dropped my stepdaughter off at work, and pulling out of the parking lot I saw a car right by the exit stopped with its hazard lights on.  I asked the driver if he was okay.  He said yes, but that he had run out of gas before he was able to make it to the nearest station.  I told him I lived right nearby, and that I had a gas can at home and could go get him some.  I rushed in the door and told Judy I needed to grab the gas can to go keep a promise and gave her the Reader's Digest version of the Cliff Notes of the story.  She smiled in that understanding way I've seen so many times.

I knew there was a gas station in the Watchung circle, so I headed there and filled up the can.  After heading back and seeing the man was still there, I gave him the can, as he seemed to know more about handling the newfangled spouts (and I hear they've gotten even worse) than I did.  After the can was empty, he gave it back and thanked me and was about to offer me money for it.  I shared with him that when I was out of gas, someone helped me out, and I was now doing the same thing, but if he felt the need to do something for me he could remember me in his prayers that night.  I also urged him, if he ever found someone in the same situation, to do the same thing.

Sometimes in life we feel like our tank is empty, and we don't know how we're ever going to fill it up again, or even get just that little bit to keep on going.  Sometimes in that situation, the slightest kind gesture by another person - a talk, a shoulder to cry on, a hug, or sometimes a literal couple gallons of gas - can fuel us and give us that little bit we need to go the extra mile and at least get where we need to go to fill the tank.  When I helped that man, I wasn't the gas station itself, but I brought a little of that gas to him to get to the pump.  In the same way, while we're not God, the little things we do can bring a little bit of God's infinite love to others, just enough to keep them going on the journey to Him.  So the next time you see someone who appears to be running on empty, remember to put a little gas in your neighbor's tank.

Body Hatred: The Skinny Man's Perspective

I recently read a blog entry that, while it highlighted the body hatred that is practically imposed on women at birth through the never ending quest to be thin, struck a chord with me as a male.  The article was entitled, "Passing On Body Hatred."  Read that first, and then I'll be happy to give you the male perspective.  I know from experience that body hatred is not just for women, and it's not just for people who think they're fat.

I can't really say my body hatred was really inherited.  My Dad was a West Point graduate, and even though I was about three or four when he got out of the Army, I always saw him as the athletic type, despite back issues that resulted in two surgeries before he was my current age.  If he ever thought he was too skinny, he never said it around me.  My Mom, even after gaining some weight after a two year attempt at quitting smoking, was referred to by my friends, and I quote, as a "skinny little thing."  She spent almost twenty years wishing to lose the pounds from that time, and if she were any other woman in the world, I'd have told her to shut up.  But you don't do that to Mom.

Nevertheless, I was always the skinny kid growing up.  The teen years in particular were hell on earth for me.  While other boys started getting muscle, I got...picked on.  I learned to hate the word skinny with the deepest of passions, and I learned to hate skinniness just as much.  There was no greater curse than to be skinny.  To make things worse, I apparently looked skinnier than I was.  I was always the skinny kid.  And with skinny also came weak.  My strength was always below average for my age, compounded by the fact that due to my weakness, I was embarrassed to work out in front of others, which kept me weak.

Mom tried in various ways to comfort me.  "When you're older you'll wish you still had the metabolism you have now," was a common one.  There have been a lot of things I've grown up and thought, "Gee, Mom was right on that one," but decades later I have not once wished for the metabolism I had as a teen.  I always remembered Papa (my Mom's Dad) being pretty built, and one of the other attempts at reassurance was reminding me a lot of my looks came from her side of the family.  Papa was not always the strapping man I remembered.  A picture I saw of him from when he was in his early 20s gave me hope back then.  I'm talking twig to tank transformation, and I thought I'd be blessed with that too.  Wrong again.

My 20s didn't help much.  In college, I'll never forget, and perhaps have just begun to forgive, the number of women who would say how lucky I was to be so thin.  They went on to say how they wished they were built more like me.  Well gee, that just makes a guy feel all manly and attractive to hear that from a woman, doesn't it?  By my mid 20s, I actually started trying to do something about it, first by working out with my friend Joe.  He was the first person I ever felt comfortable working out with in my life.  He was trying to drop weight, and I was desperately trying to pack it on, and never once were we judgmental of one another, but encouraged each other.  That, coupled with what I will now admit was a period of force feeding myself, finally got me to squeak past 160 lbs on my 6'1" frame.  Thanks for the encouragement and letting me use your weights, Joe, and RIP (though you still deserve a good, solid punch for how you left this world).

When Joe moved, my friend Greg had gotten certified as a personal trainer.  I asked if he'd be interested in taking me on, but under one condition.  He was not to treat me as a friend when we worked together.  He was to do whatever it took to get me bigger and stronger, and he would put me through the ringer when we trained.  I wasn't gaining weight or getting bigger, but I was getting chiseled and certainly stronger...until our schedules changed.  I didn't have the discipline to work out regularly on my own, and I lost a lot of that progress, but I always had a dream of what my body could be.

Years passed, and I still rejoiced in every ounce gained. My top weight ever was about 185, though I have to admit I wasn't eating right at the time.  I was in the life insurance business and doing a lot of eating on the go, which usually meant fast food.  I was probably unhealthy, but was liking how I looked, because I didn't see myself as skinny anymore.  In my married years, I've generally hovered around 165, and usually hated what I've seen in the mirror.

Working on a freight team at night and doing some body weight exercises (push ups, pull ups, etc), I've put a little muscle on, but would still be delighted to see another 2-3" on my arms and maybe the same on my legs.  Functionally, I'd like to be one of those guys who could bench his weight and leg press 2.5 times his weight.  My biggest fear about my body is that I'm too late to do that at my age.  I practically had a panic attack over a friend's Facebook status.  He talked about how there comes a time when workouts go from trying to get bigger, stronger and more flexible to trying to avoid becoming weaker, smaller and less flexible.  I didn't have the guts to ask him at what age that occurs, and if I'm not there yet, find out what I can do to get there.  Not even sure of his age, but I think he's older than I am.  I hope he is.  This week at the doctor's office, I rejoiced over having gained 9 lbs, putting me at 176, and without really adding to my gut.  That joy was compounded when my stepson, upon hearing hearing me go on and on about my gain, asked me to flex and said he could see a difference.  I'm on a bit of a high since then, but I know it's a shaky one based on my body being a little less worthy of my disdain.  Real progress requires more than that, and it started by me actually admitting in therapy the exact four words, "I hate my body."  My heart and mind have felt raw since last Saturday when that came out.  In a way, I'm afraid to let go of that because I'm afraid it will mean I have to give up trying to accomplish size and strength goals for myself and accept that there are limits to what I can do.  But I also know it's necessary.  I have a five year old and a three year old, who will learn what I live.  If I live hating my body, telling myself I'm not man enough, they'll eventually believe it about themselves.

This is a bit of a dark topic, and one that is very difficult to talk about, but I needed to, for myself and other body hating men out there.  Nonetheless, I want to end on a positive note with some pointers and a little humor to help out boys and grown men on the muscularly deprived end of the spectrum:

1) If you wouldn't call a woman fat, don't call a man skinny.  Also, if you wouldn't tell a woman to lose a few pounds, don't tell a man he needs to put some meat on his bones unless you're planning on whipping him up a protein shake right away.  We skinnies know who we are, and we don't need you to remind us.  If you're not here to help, shut up!

2) Scrawny is a pretty crappy choice of words too, even worse than skinny.  If you can't talk about our build without the words skinny or scrawny, shut up!

3) If your son is frustrated about being too skinny, don't dismiss it by telling him how lucky he is.  If you're a woman, use some common sense.  Would you want to hear a guy say he wishes his legs were as thick as yours?  It may seem like a compliment, but it's pretty emasculating for a guy to hear he has the ideal body...for a woman!

4) Moms and Dads, feel free to encourage age appropriate exercise and make some dietary suggestions, but always do it in a healthy manner.  Leave the specifics to coaches or drill instructors.

5) Stupid questions to avoid include, "Do you ever eat?" or, "Do you even weigh enough to give blood?"  The former was usually one I was asked after seconds, while the latter was one I was actually asked when I was 45 lbs over the minimum donation weight.  Trust me, we know better than you ever will what we weigh, and don't want to hear we look like we weigh less than we already do.  And for the question about eating, see rule 1).

Like thinking one is fat and equating fat with ugly, there is just as much body hatred among the muscularly challenged.  It's easy to say, "Just accept yourself," and think that's enough, but thought processes developed over the course of decades are difficult to shed.  I can say, for the sake of my boys, I will try to think more positively.  I won't give up trying to build more strength, even if I'm past the age where conventional wisdom says I can, but I'll try to find ways to look at it as working toward a positive, not running away from a negative.  If my kids see me at least making the effort to think positively, maybe they'll know I'm not there yet, but start working on it sooner.

God gave me a body, not that flesh may glory in His sight, but not to hate it either, but as a tool to do accomplish good works through His grace.  He expects me to work with it and not be lazy with it, but He will also give me the strength I need in the moment.  Intellectually, I know it's true, but like those in the Gospel who believed yet knew their faith was weak, I say, "Lord, I believe, increase my faith."  This is just one more example in my life where faith is very different from feelings.  Though I admit I really don't feel this way most of the time, as Psalm 139:14 says, "I praise You, Lord, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made."  And to all heights, weights, skin colors, eye colors, hair colors, builds, you too are fearfully and wonderfully made, and your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit.  Let's all start taking care of our temples.  God Bless!