Was That Me?

Sitting in an empty apartment in a city where you don't know anyone will cause a person to participate in deep soul searching. My self-reflecting comes in the form of looking up people from my past on Facebook.

Tonight I was looking up people from my graduating class in high school when I realized what a prick I was in high school. Maybe you've had this realization too.

I was contemplating asking a few people to be my Facebook friend so that any future Facebook friend that I make will see how many other Facebook friends I have and either think, "Wow, this guy adds everyone he knows" or "Wow, Brandon is a really popular guy in the cyber world."

As I was going through the list of faces that I haven't thought about or seen in eight years, I would come across someone that I couldn't remember why we weren't as good of friends in our senior year as we were in our freshman year.

My first thought was that I was a complete jerk to that person and I would have second thoughts about requesting to be his or her Facebook friend. What if he or she logs in and gets the notice that Brandon Paul Roesler has requested to be his or her friend and remembers what an ass I was?

I know that if I received a friend request from some of the people that I saw, I would think that same thought. I would rather not be reminded that some of these people exist or ever had anything to do with my adolescence.

Because I have these thoughts about some of the people on that list of Granite Hills 2001 graduates, I wonder if any of them have similar thoughts about me. I hope not, but if you do and you're reading this, know that I'm sorry. Looking back, I now realize that I didn't have any right to say or do anything that might hurt anyone and it really pains me to think that I might have.

Silent But Deadly

I haven't missed a day of running yet. I came close yesterday because Sundays are hectic at work. I have to go in early (which means 9:00) and I'm usually in the office until dusk. That means that in order to get my daily run in, I would have to wake up at least an hour and a half earlier to have enough time. Because I didn't get home on Saturday night from work until about 1:15 in the morning, I wasn't about to set my alarm for any earlier than I had to.

By the time I got home yesterday, I had just enough time to change my clothes and hit the nearby trail, do my jog to the rest stop, do my ten chin-ups, and run back before it became completely dark. There were a few times while running under the canopy of trees that it was pretty difficult to see, but I still made it back.

Today was different. Because my friends took the liberty of throwing a "Brandon Roesler Blow-Out" last night in honor of me leaving on Thursday, I didn't get home until about 3:00 am; and I wasn't sober. Waking up seven hours after a strong screwdriver, three gin and tonics, a tequila(?) shot, and a splash of Jameson whiskey to the face doesn't exactly cause one to want to get up and run.

So after a Taco Bell Supreme Burrito, a hard shell taco, seven-layer nachos, two slices of five-free-topping Papa John's pizza and a day sitting in front of a computer screen, I felt pretty obligated to run. Because I didn't actually get off work until about 10:45 pm, I had to run on the treadmill in the "Health Club" of the Barkley Village Apartments.

The Health Club includes a few free weights looking into wide-as-the-room floor to ceiling mirror, the first-ever electric treadmill in the corner facing the center of the room, and a few machines that look like medieval torture apparatuses.

I was the only one in there and it was 11:00 pm so I figured it would be safe to take my shirt off. I put my headphones on, turned on Muse's latest album and started my jog. Because I always run on the trail and I don't wear a watch, I don't know how long I usually run for or how far I go so I wasn't sure how long to run on the treadmill. I figured it was at least twenty minutes so that was my first goal.

About fifteen minutes into my run a tall, thick (not muscular, but not obese) guy walked in. We never made eye contact and after two minutes of being in the same room without talking, we had passed that point in which it would be polite to exchange greetings. Any sign of acknowledgment from that point on would just be awkward. This is what I hate about these fitness rooms that apartments and hotels have. Everything is fine and dandy until someone else comes in. Then everything becomes extremely uncomfortable.

Now I don't know how true it is that after a night of heavy drinking, the alcohol can me smelled through your pores the next day, but if that's the case, his olfactory receptors were treated to an all-you-can-small buffet of stench. He probably could tell exactly what kind of gin the bartender was pouring or that the screwdriver that was made for me before we left last night was made with Skyy vodka.

I wasn't about to stop my run just to put my shirt on, so I kept going while he came in and did a few repetitions at the bench press. In between each set, he would sit there awkwardly looking at his feet. He couldn't look up because I was running directly at him. I couldn't necessarily look in a different direction so he had to pretend to be exceptionally interested in his shoe laces.

During one of his sets, his iPod fell off of his lap and on to the floor leaving his headphones hanging uselessly from his ears. Because of the position of the treadmill, he knew I saw the whole thing, so he kept going like nothing happened.

From the bench press, he went to the mirror and the free weights and did some arm extensions - ten repetitions with fifteen pound dumbbells to be exact. Doing one set must have made him pretty hot and because the guy on the treadmill didn't have a shirt on, why couldn't he take his off as well? Not what I wanted to be forced to look at.

Once I hit twenty minutes on the treadmill, I was feeling pretty good so I decided to stay on for an hour or until the Muse album ended; which ever came first. Plus, I wanted to still be running when he decided to leave so he would always wonder how long I was actually jogging before and after he had left.

My new friend did a few more pointless workouts interspersed with meandering around like a big oaf before weighing himself on the scale and headed home. He was probably in there for about thirty to forty-five minutes and not once did we make eye contact or exchange one word.

I wonder if he had any idea that I was judging his complete lack of a legitimate work out regime. Maybe he was just as disgusted to see a hairy-chested pasty white guy drenched in sweat as I was to see him without a shirt on and doing curls directly in front of me. Either way, it was an uncomfortable situation that I will remember the next time I decide to put off running on the trail in the daylight.

Jogging is for the Birds

I've worked as a waiter in the restaurant industry since 2002. One of the more under-rated aspects of this field is the amount of exercise one gets on a daily basis. The employee is constantly on his or her feet carrying out various errands for the guest.

A typical shift would require me to run back and forth between the kitchen to get drinks, the table to deliver said drinks, the computer stand to ring in the order, and back to the kitchen to pick up the order. I would then have to run back to the table to deliver the order only to have to go back to the kitchen to fix the order for a stubborn patron and then find a manager to calm a hysterical guest. This would inevitably bring me back to the kitchen to get the free desert the guest was entitled to as an apology for the their absurd requests and back to the table to deliver the discounted check.

That's one table. Now multiply that table by about fifteen and you have yourself a decent workout. Rarely does anyone think about the job from this perspective until he or she is working in an office that doesn't require any more movement than the simple click of a mouse button.

This summer I found myself in that very position. I work on average 40 hours a week in an office where I get absolutely no exercise and I am constantly eating fast food because of its convenience. I have also had more to drink this summer than I have in my entire life. I live in the most boring, drab town in the country so the only thing to do is to sit in a living room with a few friends and drink the night away. Don't get me wrong, I have had a blast with these guys, but it isn't exactly doing my body any favors. I've always had a pretty high metabolism so I don't think I have gained that much weight, but I know that I am still grossly out of shape. Because of this discovery, I have taken it upon myself to do something about it.

As of today, I have officially jogged for five consecutive days (big deal, right?) and I plan on trying to maintain this morning ritual for as long as I can. The problem lies in the simple fact that I hate routine physical activity. I can't stand it! The only thing I can think about while exercising is how miserable I am, but every so often I find myself right back in the position of trying to get back in the routine of living a healthier life.

The first day is always the easiest. As I sit around all summer feeling more and more flabby, I become more inspired to get started. "Yeah, I'll get up at eight o'clock in the morning and do a light jog!" That inspirational ecstasy of adrenaline lasts all of fifteen steps as I start to pump morning air into my shriveled lungs. About five minutes later, my feet start complaining about the constant slamming on the pavement. My legs are next telling me that my knees hate me and then my back chimes in. My back starts collapsing on itself like a tired accordion. Sure, I feel great after I'm done, but being done can't come fast enough.

The worst part is I have to wake up in less that 24 hours to repeat the process! It's easy to hop out of bed first thing in the morning to get started on the first day, but each day after that is torture! My eight o'clock start turns into eight-thirty turns into nine-fifteen turns into ten-thirty-six (this morning).

And is it just me, or is showering after a sweat-inducing workout awful? The perspiration from my brow runs into my eyes and burns like hell. No matter what I do, I can't avoid that sting. I can wipe away sweat while running and again when I'm done, but as soon as that water goes down my forehead, my eyes start to burn. Plus, no matter how cold of a shower I take, I always find myself sweating even after the shower which makes me wonder why I bothered. But the shower represents the end of the workout and the start of the day.

I'm not really in that bad of shape compared to other people. I am a big believer in the power of the protein shake with added milled flax seed and I try to ride my bike to work as often as possible. I guess the reason I feel it necessary to add some extra cardiovascular activity to my daily routine is that I'm afraid I will become exceedingly fat and I just don't want that. So until I think of enough excuses not to get up and start jogging, I will just be miserable for half an hour a day.

You Should Blog That

I first heard of a blog when Myspace was at its creative and popular height. I was probably a Junior in college and the last thing I wanted to do was write essays in my spare time on a social networking site. I preferred cyber-stalking girls and pretending that I was cool enough to be able to talk to them. I didn't want people entering my head and learning what made me tick.

As a result of this hatred towards blogs, I did what I do with everything that I am against. I turned it into a joke. When someone at work or school started telling me a long, drawn-out story about something I didn't care about, I would interrupt them with, "You should blog that." It was a line that received a quick laugh (however awkward and forced) and it made me feel instantly better about putting someone in his or her place. It also, however, led to a decline in the number of my social invites and interactions, but I digress.

I am now 26-years-old and have been out of school for over four years and I find myself in the shadows of the popularity of none other than the blog. How did I end up falling victim of my own punchline? I wish I could give some enlightened reason for joining this madness, but I can't. I'm constantly finding myself yearning to write down my daily thoughts and I can't do it in the 140 characters or fewer that Twitter has to offer.

I don't know how long these blogs will last, but I'm here to try it out. I don't know who will read these, and frankly, I don't really care. It will probably be for the best if no one reads at all because I will inevitably offend someone. I have an extremely politically incorrect way of thinking but because of my natural desire to not want to offend anyone, I find myself holding back. This is my promise to you, readers: I will not hold anything back!

If you've made it this far, I congratulate you and pity you at the same time. I'm looking forward to this new adventure in narcissism and I hope you enjoy it because I know I wouldn't. I welcome any and all comments you have, but if you have an entire story that you want to relate to one of my posts, maybe you should blog it!