pound for pound

I am out of shape. Not in any health-endangering way, I don’t think. But just shy of the “keep your shirt on around poolside” out of shape.

This is put into sharp relief by my parents’ relative fitness. They’re reasonably close to being model specimens. Dad could have better eyesight and flexibility; Mom could have more strength. Really, though, they’re outstanding.

Physically, I identify most with my late Grandfather. He was a hefty guy. I was reassured recently when my Mom reminded me that, in addition to passing away from cancer, it was high blood pressure that dogged him all his life–no matter what weight he was. That doesn’t get me off the hook medically, but at the very least it keeps me from associating fat with mortality.

Maybe I should, though, especially with Something coming. I’ve remained strong most of my life; save weight-lifters and wrestlers, I’ve always been one of the strongest of my cohort, at least in terms of raw “pack-muling.” I feel as though my stamina is good…a fact that’s shot to shit after 3 flights of stairs. And my on-again/off-again jogging has been taxing.

What image do I want Something to have of me? Missus has always been concerned with her own body, never happy with it. Of course, she’s kind about mine, but losing her Dad early makes her fear more about my mortality than I might normally. My parents always looked odd compared to friends’, and I both took comfort and had concerns about that: They’re as healthy (i.e. as likely to live) as anyone, yet…My aunt died young, and she was fit, too. So, is it just a game of playing the odds?

Grandpa’s physique left my Dad with a bit of a complex, I think–not a terrible one as these things go, but nevertheless. My own issues, I think, shielded me from that during my own childhood, or Dad just kept it to himself. I’m not sure, though, that I can or should do the same conversely. Especially while Missus is, well, gestating and needing more aid from me in the months ahead, should I go to boot camp on myself? (Or am I just following Dad’s footsteps, hitting the gym instead of confronting something more directly?)

Frankly, it’s not vanity, at least not in terms of Something. I hope to have Something love me any way I look, and vice versa. It’s more the matter of fitness–in terms of being a fit parent and fit provider, whether that overlaps with physical fitness. Missus loves me even if I’m unfit, my work is untouched if I’m unfit, and my pasttime is loaded with the unfit (to a far more extreme degree than me).

But parenting? I wonder if there isn’t some new standard that dads need to meet: “You must be this BMI to board the ride.”