The fitness industry always promotes goals. The bikini body. The final score. Achieving “results” constantly invokes finite competition. As if one day we cross a finish line, arrive at perfection, and no longer need to exercise. No such luck.
I want to win this game: Make it to 95 years old. Wake up energized. Walk to the bathroom. Squat on the toilet. Take a triumphant poop. Wipe myself. Stand up. Wash my hands. Head out into a productive day.
Actually, that is pretty much my goal right now. Take care of my crap so I can be of service.
That goal flushes way so much nonsense. No more fake foods, no pummeling workouts, no blowing out knees or breaking spirits. No more exercises in narcissism.
Now I might be able to contort into a trophy pose, run a marathon, or lift a truck. But who cares? Glory ebbs and flows.
The important question is: How long can I stay out of diapers and be of use?