Remaining a "Guy"

In some ways, regrettably, I'm still a guy. Yes, I'm in my 70s. Yes, I'm on cancer meds that kill my testosterone (and you know what that means!). But still ...

Let's journey to the health club, the site where my "guyness" lingers most prominently--and in a way that continues to surprise me.

It's competitiveness. And it remains a part of my personality even though testosterone is merely a fading memory (it's been gone for about five years now).

I've been competitive virtually my entire life. I have two brothers--one older, one younger--and those of you with siblings know what that means.

I loved sports throughout boyhood and on into young manhood--and beyond. When I was in my 40s, I was still playing tennis early every morning out at a local racket club not far from where I taught. And I wanted to win--and sometimes didn't take losing very well. (And, considering I lost a lot, you would think I'd ... adapt. Mellow. I didn't.)

Anyway, competition can be a good thing. It can help motivate you in all sorts of ways--motivate you to be better at your job, to try harder, etc. And so it was with me. Early in my career (and later) I recognized the strengths--sometimes the amazing strengths--of colleagues, and I found myself wanting to be like them. And the only way to do so? Work harder. Learn more.

When I began the quarterly injections of the testosterone-killer, I thought some of this competitiveness would disappear. I guess some of it has ... but not at the health club.

Part of my routine out there is to walk a brisk mile around the indoor track (eleven laps). And I've discovered in recent years that there are often familiar folks on the track at the same time I am. And--confession time--I don't want them to pass me.

Let me say first that there are people who will pass me, no matter what I do. They're younger, stronger, more stable, etc. Them I don't really worry about.

No, it's the folks who are generally in my age bracket whom I wish to discourage from the sad notion that they are My Equal. Or My Superior.

Okay, some of them are faster than I, so (and this is beyond pathetic) when I see them on the track, I try to begin my own laps just a bit behind them. During my eleven laps they gradually pull farther and farther away--but not so far that they will lap me.

I'm not the only one who does this sort of thing, by the way. There are a couple of guys who, when they realize I'm about to lap them, will step off the track for a drink of water or whatever. This could be authentic--but it isn't: They do it just about every damn time I near them. (I smirk with disdain when I swoop by.)

Let's take yesterday. There's a guy, an older guy, who is a tad faster than I am, so when I saw him yesterday, I pulled my not-far-behind-you strategy (see above). My goal: to keep him in sight, to make sure he didn't lap me.

And so yesterday--as I do on other such occasions--I kept a faster pace than I normally do, and I managed to prevent the lapping. And when I did so, I felt a combination of pride and revulsion. Why am I still doing this?

I have "balance issues" now--probably related to my BP med. So going faster is not generally a good idea.

Yesterday, I didn't care. Maybe I'd fall? Maybe I'd collide with the wall? I didn't give a damn. That guy was not going to lap me.

And he didn't.

Thus confirming that I am both a Man. And an Idiot.

In some ways, of course, the words are synonyms.