Jam Don't Shake Like Jelly

My Grandpa Shepard took me to two movies as a kid—“1776” and “Oliver.” I’ve already written about the “1776” fiasco—when he showed up without his wallet and proceeded to beg strangers for enough money to take his granddaughter to the movies. “Oliver” was a quieter affair, thank goodness, and a more enjoyable film to watch. Yes, people still broke out in song, but at least not over a preamble or gunshot wound.

One line from “Oliver” still sticks with me today. It’s from the scene in which the boy asks the headmaster for seconds.

“More soup, please.” And then, all hell breaks loose.

These days, I’m begging the headmaster for less soup, not more. And still, it feels like all hell is about to break loose.

My response? Start pumping iron. No, really.

Apparently, when one part of my life starts to careen a bit, my reaction is to take control of another part of it. This time, it’s the abs. Or the “flabs,” as I call them.

So, twice a week, I’m putting on what I’m pretty sure are pajama bottoms, swapping sandals for Vans, and heading to the school’s weight room to pump up my jam, pump it up!

I am not delusional. I do not expect my abs to be mistaken for steel any more than I expect lifting weights in a gym will help me lift the professional weights that are heaped on my shoulders.

I still have too much soup in my bowl these days. And a bit of a muffin top, too. But there is something to be said for taking control of things—even things that may not matter much. Turns out, a few reps on the Nautilus helps steady me outside the gym, as well. And for that, I am grateful.

In fact, I could almost burst out in song. . .