Anchors Aweigh…Less Than Me
I have really got to start exercising. I realized that this morning in the shower, when I was looking at a dimple in my knee that I had never noticed before, and then realized that it was my belly button.
Suffice to say, being a communications manager is not the most physically taxing of occupations. The only time I do any heavy lifting in the shop is on the odd occasion where I have to replace one of our humongous satcom radios, and that is not very often. Those babies are built to last. Good thing too, as the last time I had to carry one, the guy helping me nearly had a heart attack and HE was actually in good shape. It was almost enough to make me feel good about myself. I will have to visit his grave sometime and thank him.
But unfortunately, most of the heavy lifting I do is in the chow hall, and the greatest weight – besides the one already slopping over my industrial-strength belt – is at the end of my fork. Because if you walk away hungry from dinner on the USNS Lummus, it is your own fault. I’m talking generous portions here. One time I asked for a serving of barbecued pork and when it arrived you could have sworn it was my own personal spahnferkel on a platter (Ed. - also known as spannferkel or spanferkel, or a whole pig meant for a German crowd…). I’ve been served pizza slices that have been mistaken for flags, though I think they got the idea when people were being hit by stray chunks of pepperoni shrapnel when they tried to use the slices to communicate in semaphore.
There is always food to be had: cereal, ice cream, fruit and sandwich makings are available 24/7 to the hardy and hungry mariner. It’s almost like being at home, which I guess is part of the idea. But therein lies its flaw, at least in my case.
When I am back home in Appomattox, there is always work to be done. Not poofy lightweight communications work, but real work, physical work, like feeding, building, fixing, cutting, splitting, mowing, moving, digging or dragging. I get dirty. I sweat. I get exercise. And I don’t eat nearly as much as I do when I’m on the ship!
Unlike life on the ship, life at home is not a non-stop snack-a-thon. I am only home for a couple of months at a time, so things need to get done, chop-chop, move this, lift that, rip that out, put this in, always on the go…
Well, at least every other day, anyway. I can beg the occasional day off, but it is my own choice not to make that a habit. Being home is the only chance I get to sweat off a few pounds and actually get something accomplished while I do it, and that is the key. Hey, if I’m going to kill myself, I may as well do it by building something I can lie down on. Or in.
There is a small gymnasium on board. I think it is on the O2 level. But I have never been a fan of exercise just for exercise sake. I can’t understand taking the time to get on a treadmill and walk for miles without getting anywhere. Perhaps if they had something like a giant gerbil wheel, with pictures on it that would make me look like I was making some progress. It could even be homemade: “Hey, that’s the 34th time I’ve seen Miss July, I’m halfway finished! I wonder if those are real…”
Besides the treadmill, there is also a stair-stepper, which I find to be a total waste of money. Including the bridge, the superstructure has six levels, then tack on the belowdecks going all the way down to the engine room, that’s at least another four or five. There are stairs leading to all of them, and you actually get somewhere!
Likewise, doing the circuit on the Universal weight rack – which, whether intentionally or not, looks much like something from a medieval torture chamber – is not my syringe of steroids either. I like to think that it is because of my ‘owmypoorgroinophobia’ (fear of hernias) and not just that I am lazy.
There are free weights available, but the only thing I consider them good for is weaponry. I’m not lifting one unless I’m being attacked. In a bad way. Which is likely the only way I’m going to ever be attacked, unless I lose some of this weight.
Leave a Reply