Identity Crisis

I got some disturbing news the other day. A body composition analysis, sponsored by my workplace gym, revealed that only 20% of me is worth anything. A technician held a foam housing containing a non-contacting sensor to my right bicep, pressed a button on the machine to which it was attached, read some cryptic numbers from its display, and delivered the bad tidings. I’m 22% fat, which is “fair” for a man of my age and IQ; ideal would be in the teens -- I’m working on it!

Another data point the machine deduced from my aura was water content. According to its electromechanical divinations, I’m approximately 58% water. One implication of this is that I’m 2% dehydrated, as I was informed by the technician who appeared far more concerned about it than I was. A far more important implication of this is the result of some simple math: if you take out the fat and water, 100 - 22 - 58 = 20% actual substance remains - that means the working part of my bones, muscle, skin, brain, solar plexus, etc., comprise only 20% of my total being.

So my motivation to get in better shape, in addition to getting my doctor off my back and maintaining my appearance as arm candy for the talented and exceptional Mrs. Bruck, is in part driven my desire to increase the relative amount of substance of which I’m composed. Granted, the best I can hope for is the low 30’s, but it’s good to have something to shoot for anyway.

I won’t bore you with the details of my workout regimen. In fact I would like to take this opportunity to respectfully request that the entire human race not bore me with theirs either. Seriously, I’m glad that you’ve found something that works for you, but if I need more detail, believe me, I’ll ask.

Here’s just one piece of advice I would offer regarding physical fitness: don’t listen to Steve Martin on your Ipod while benchpressing.

Speaking of benchpressing, I was reading an article in the Washington (com)Post sports section (which I pretty much never read - I think my male sports chromosome is missing), and I came across an article on Thomas Clayton, a young man with a less-than-perfect criminal record who’s vying to be a running back in the NFL draft. He’s 5’10”, same as Bruck, 220#, same as Bruck give or take, and bench presses 440#, okay that’s a little different - a bit less than twice what I can bench on a good day. Well, as Meatloaf says, two out of three ain’t bad! I wonder what percentage substance Clayton is comprised of. On second thought, I don’t think I want to know.