Thursday, August 16, 2012
August 15, 2012: Chillin with The Bees
I went to the gym yesterday, knowing full well that I wasn’t ready to play with the college ballers yet, but hoping to shoot around a little bit. With the gym floor being redone, I decided to hit the weight room to maybe make an incremental improvement in leg strength. Little did I know I would be entering the World of the Bees.
The name “Bee” was invented by my friend Jay, and it was derived from the fact that these guys are, act like, or want to be, “swoll,” “ripped,” “cut,” etc. They are swollen like a finger after a bee sting.
There are many species of bees, including The Gregarious Bee—the guy who knows everyone at the gym, especially the cute girls. There is the Top-Heavy Bee, the one who has neglected his lower body in favor of his upper body, making him look like those body builders in SNL’s “How Much ya Bench?” skit with Jay Mohr.
There is also that unique Bee, The Bee who is Involved in Pursuing a University Degree—i.e., a College Bee. I was surrounded by these Bees as used the weight room at the college rec center. They are an impressive lot, with their pinkish/brownish liquids drunk out of Nalgene bottles, their endless strutting, and fraternity t-shirts.
Man, it’s amazing how good of shape we are in, or can be, as college students. The same “bros” who drink to excess on weekends and many times on week nights (remember those random Wednesday night trips to the bars?), are the same guys who have the juicehead physiques. While there is that subset of Bees who eats very well, minds their minerals and vitamins, and drinks at or above the recommended level of water each day, many TBwiIiPaUD’s gorge themselves on greasy cafeteria food and cartons of whatever cereal, popcorn, and ice cream can be bought on the cheap at the campus grocery store.
It was during my senior year of college, when I regularly ate grilled, boneless and skinless chicken breast, rice, and sourdough bread (carbs are no biggie when you’re 22!), followed by a fresh-fruit smoothie for dessert, that I was at my peak conditioning. My thin arms rippled a bit with veins and muscle, my chest had gone from concave to pec-worthy, and my abs, while not washboard, were at least rough cement-wall quality.
The fact that I was drinking a good, but not unhealthy, amount—senior year, braghh!—seemingly had no bearing on my physical conditioning, as I played full-court regular basketball games and put myself through long weight workouts with minimal fuss.
And to think that I thought that it would always be this easy. This easy to recover from workouts. This easy to stay in aesthetically-pleasing shape. This. Easy.
As I stare at my slightly-protruding gut sideways in the mirror, I wonder if somewhere inside the gut, and somewhere inside me, is that Wannabe Bee of nine years ago.