benchmarksblog

WHAT I LEARN FROM LIFTING & PLAYING

Month: June, 2017

REHEARSAL

When he sees me cart out my keyboard and all its related gear into the garden on hot, humid, Michigan summer afternoon, my Operations Manager asks me what I am doing.

 

I tell him that there is a wedding tomorrow and that the rehearsal for the ceremony is in 15 minutes.

 

“I didn’t think you of all people needed to rehearse,” he responds.

 

I want to tell him that I don’t need to rehearse.

 

But that I show up for these things because I remain critical and distrustful of some of the staff he has hired.

 

And that I would rather put in the extra time and have a beautiful event than have any miscommunication occur on the actual day itself.

 

Instead, I laugh and thank him for the compliment.

 

I’m really rehearsing staying silent on matters that warrant me saying nothing.

Advertisements

RASH

My left arm has been itching.

 

Not surprisingly, that itch developed into a nasty, red, bumpy rash because I couldn’t quit scratching.

 

After an extensive image search on Google, I freaked out, convinced that I had contracted scabies, bed bugs, leprosy or travelling herpes. Maybe even a combination of all four.

 

A quick picture of my arm and text to my doctor confirmed a possible diagnosis of scabies or spider bites. He called in a prescription to treat both. Just in case.

 

Because I also like second opinions, I sent the same picture to a pharmacist friend in New York, who told me that my doctor was wrong and that I had developed a heat rash.

 

I didn’t want to believe this second opinion. It seemed to be an unlikely thing for a guy born on the tropical island of Singapore to suddenly get heat rash for the first time in Detroit.

 

Nevertheless, I dutifully put on some Cortizone cream as the pharmacist instructed and went to bed.

 

The next morning, most of the inflammation had gone down.

 

More importantly, none of it had spread.

 

Indicating that it wasn’t scabies.

 

When my coach saw my arm later that day, he seconded the second opinion.

 

It’s apparently a common gym thing in the summer.

 

So now the face wipes I use after working out get used to clean my arms too.

 

And I bought a little fan that I use under the piano to keep myself dry and minimally sweaty at work.

 

The rash is nearly gone.

 

But my need to jump to the worst possible conclusion is probably still entirely intact.

PRIDE

Detroit Pride is this weekend.

 

But I won’t be attending the parade or any of the other special festivities planned.

 

I’m at the very peak of my bulking and at 210lbs, I’ve dealt with the most unkind remarks over the last few months:

 

“Did you stop going to the gym?”

 

“What’s going on with your belly, are you pregnant?”

 

“I see you’ve gained a few pounds.”

 

And these are some of the more innocuous comments.

 

I feel great and I know that I am on track with the training plan that was designed specifically for me.

 

So I wonder why mostly everyone else around me has a problem.

 

Just in case though, I’m going to stay home and keep my pride from getting any more wounded.

 

SECOND RATE REJUVENATION

At a pharmaceutical company cocktail party, invited guests are treated to top shelf liquor, passed hors d’oeuvres, and a vivid Power Point presentation of a brand new model of laser wand that can be inserted into dry vaginas to induce self-lubrication once again.

 

“The rejuvenated vagina will also be tightened significantly,” I overhear the product representative say before encouraging everyone to take a closer look at the wand she has set up “strictly for external demonstration purposes only.”

 

When a server suggests that I ask if the laser wand will help rejuvenate my used up man cunt, I reply that it would be more helpful if it can tighten his own gaping mouth hole, which is constantly flapping due to the immense bullshit he is prone to uttering, and slack from the large quantities of big black dicks he is always putting in there.

 

I don’t think anymore about rejuvenation anymore until a few nights later.

 

An elderly gentleman falls out of his chair and lies convulsing on the floor behind me just as I start Georgia on my Mind.

 

Diners can stare, servers and managers can mill around in concern, but I have to keep with decorum by looking forward, so I continue to play as the paramedics arrive, wondering all the while if the man is having a heart attack, a seizure, a stroke, a choking situation, or is just simply drunk.

 

It is assessed that the man can be cleared to walk out to the ambulance with assistance and I hear the first few shuffles of feet, followed by the raspy cough of the patient demanding, “to speak to him … I have to speak to him now! Now … please!”

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him directing his path of motion towards me, where I sit at the piano halfway between the dining room and the door.

 

A paramedic is supporting his frail body but he wrenches himself free and

grabs onto the edge of the instrument.

 

I see and smell a dinner jacket covered with vomit.

 

He leans into my ear.

 

He whispers, “You’re a second rate pianist.”

 

The paramedic pulls him back into finishing the rest of his slow, painful journey out of the restaurant and onto the emergency room, as I begin to gag.

 

The lingering smell of partially digested beef wellington and the sting of purely wounded indignation are making my lips tighten.

 

More tight and rejuvenated than any laser wand could ever accomplish.