I downloaded a fitness app. When filling out the questionnaire, they asked, “What kind of shape are you in?” I’m in the kind of shape such that no woman I know, except my wife, would go on a romantic vacation with me alone. And if they did, they would come home early.
“When was the last time you were in great shape?” Sixty-six years ago. When I turned 7, I was as trim as a Blue Jay and as fast as a Central Park squirrel. Just like a squirrel, I could eat nuts day and night and never gain an ounce. Now, if I eat one nut, my pants need tailoring. I wonder if, like people, squirrels can be allergic to nuts. Has anyone ever seen a squirrel in anaphylactic shock? Someone needs to write the squirrel diet handbook called “How to Hide Your Nuts.”
At 7 years old, there was no shape other than great shape. I ran to school; I ran home from school. I climbed stairs; I jumped downstairs. I leaped over fire hydrants. I could play all day on an eyedropper of water and a Good Humor vanilla ice cream bar. My parents never had to tell me I should run around more. In fact, it was quite the opposite. What I heard was, “When are you going to stop running around and just stay still for one minute?” I do miss that little Mark.
One of my greatest tests of strength was in gym class, climbing 20 feet up the rope without using my feet to grab onto it. I was half chimpanzee. I was a James Sprague, the reigning Fittest Man on Earth. James can back squat 475 pounds. These days, I am so stiff that I can’t front squat a pair of socks without needing a heating pad.
Without noticing it, my body has gone from a shiny new Audi to a dented rent-a-wreck. I went from “Let me get it” to “Just give me two minutes to catch my breath.”
The first time I remember being out of breath was August 9, 1971. I ate some bad fish. An hour later, I ran two miles like a Kenyan marathoner trying to make it home to the bathroom before experiencing a Hiroshima-type blast. Touchdown with less than half a second to spare.
Because my computer knows I’m looking to get into better shape, my algorithm sends me male enhancement ads and new “Tai Chi Walking and Chair” emails every hour. Every man in these ads has a perfectly chiseled six-pack. The only six-pack I ever had was when I carried one home from 7-Eleven.
Jewish men are not especially known for their six-packs. We tend not to look like Michael B. Jordan, and more like Jonah Hill. If I were to go shirtless and look into my full-length mirror, I wouldn’t see a six-pack. I’d see an “I need to pack it up” pack.
The next app question was, “What kind of shape do I want to be in?” At a certain age, and I’m there now, most of us give up wanting anything but good health for our families, friends and ourselves. And to finally be happy with who we are. Of course, I want to look good to my wife, kids and friends and when I’m on stage, to my audience.
For decades, my friend Cindy had so much invested in staying thin that she got sucked into a negative void. She recently told me she doesn’t want to live like that anymore. She seems finally happy letting go of the idea that she must be perfect.
I’ve gained back 10 of the 50 pounds I lost. It’s brought up guilt, shame and fear. People were always telling me how proud they were of me for losing the weight. Now I think I’ve let them down.
Here’s my pep talk to myself:
“Mark, you let nobody down, including yourself. What you did was get sloppy with your food. Now you need to get back on track and stop kicking your own behind. Be kind. You’re a human being with a human struggle. Let yourself off the hook.”
Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer and hosts, along with Danny Lobell, the “We Think It’s Funny” podcast. His new book is “Why Not? Lessons on Comedy, Courage and Chutzpah.”
