Congratulations. You just broke your dead lift record. I heard this on the other side of town, when you dropped the bar with enough force that fracking companies used the tremors to map drilling sites, paired with an agonizing howl, to indicate you might have also passed a bronze statue of Vin Diesel through your small intestine.
You used to keep fit like a human being. You rode a bike. Played tennis. And spent one determined summer pumping backyard iron after seeing William Zabka’s chest in Back to School.
Maybe life kicked sand in your face, or you got winded hanging a bird feeder. Whatever the case, you needed a hook to bite, and you got caught into this way of working out in the same way drifters are pulled into AA.
But, rather than telling a knowing group why you drank a case of hairspray, you’re doing jump squats, grunting and groaning in a manner so unsettling, so filthy, that afterwards, people calm their nerves by watching Requiem for a Dream.
Get the benefits of exercise in a better way. Take more walks. Do 50 pushups a day. And remind yourself if the ancient Greeks had known their unchecked obsession of physical perfection would lead to an exercise called “The Thruster,” the statue of Zeus would look more like a mortal baking bread.
In the end, it’s unlikely any man can maintain your level of intensity without serious injury. Self-inflicted or otherwise.