When I am not knocking around the archives at my brand-new Internet home, T-Nation, or rockin’ it old-school down in the basement gym, I am sometimes found making the rent money at a boring desk job somewhere in Cubicle Nation.
My office consists of a motley collection of dull individuals, young and old, male and female, thin and fat, but no one (besides me) even remotely qualifies as ‘jacked’. This is perhaps not too surprising, given the nature of the business (software engineering). What IS surprising, however, is that occasionally one or another of my geeky coworkers summons the gonadal fortitude to inquire of me exactly “what I do” to maintain my (comparatively) larger-than-life physique. Its usually one of the young turks, scrawny paps whom I can comfortably arm-curl during my summertime “Lawn Guyland/Joisey Shore” pre-beach workouts (Bench 'n Curls, Pecs 'n Bi’s, you know the drill). So how do I respond?
If I honestly believed that any of them were serious about an interest in bodybuilding, or merely intrigued by the notion of adding enough bodyweight to avoid attaining flight in a stiff breeze, I might direct them here to the repository of all things iron and manly. But I think they just want to hear me tell lurid tales of gobbling steroids, lifting buildings and biting the heads off of whippets.
So I fuck with them.
“How do I do it, bro’? Simple, really. Bagels and naps. Oh, and Flintstones vitamins, twice a day. Bam! Bam!”
Some nod their heads slowly, not knowing if I am playing square with them or not. Others quickly excuse themselves and hide under their desks.
So tell me, T-Nation, how do YOU handle the stupid workplace questions about your participation in The Life from the nosy and terminally uninformed?
Edit: For the more tender types who may take offense with my frivolous joshing, please re-read the above post (yes, I know, its a lot of words). At no point did I state that anyone has ever come to me seeking ADVICE, for no one has. Rather, I’ve been quizzed by curiosity-seekers, much like those annoying people who gather at trainwrecks in the hopes of glimpsing a little blood. I am certain that most merely wish to have their “suspicions” confirmed about raw meat, unholy rituals and chemical enhancement.
As for the young turks I mentioned, they are hardly padawans kneeling humbly at the master’s feet, begging enlightenment. They are, in fact, half a dozen brash young geniuses who collectively refer to themselves as the “Merry Pranksters” and who spend most of their workday, near as I can tell, emailing one another racy Internet pictures and scoffing at those of us who do not get their humor. Please don’t feel sorry if I tweaked a few of them.
Am I the only one who toils at a dull job in a small office, where teasing, taunting, pranking and general shitheadedness is the order of the day? It may humor some of you to learn that one of the Merry Pranksters thought it would be an absolute scream if he turned me in to HR for allegedly taking “illegal drugs” when he spied me popping fish oil pills one day at my desk after lunch. This sparked a comical ‘intervention’ by some personnel weenie who actually seemed crestfallen when she learned that my ‘stash’ consisted of nothing more than a Kirkland bottle full of big, oily geltabs. I offered to belch a little fish for her, if that would ease her mind, but she demurred. I was subsequently released on my own recognizance but sternly warned to take my “nasty pills” home where they would not offend the natives.
Would YOU give a straight answer to someone such as I have described?