The Choices We Make

Friday, 10 February 2006

I truly believe that if I were ever shot in the chest, the bullet would be no match for my pectoral muscles and bounce away. Then my assailant would turn the gun upon himself just to avoid the rebuke and subsequent thrashing that would be coming his way. I hope someone shoots me soon so that I can test this theory.

It's true, I'm a strong man. Few try to tell me different. I work out every day, and my commitment knows no bounds. Once, 5 years ago now, some guy stopped me from making it to the gym. He collapsed in front of my car and mumbled something about insulin as he lay on my driveway floating in a pool of sweat in the oppressive mid-afternoon heat.

I may be hard in a physical sense, but watching the suffering of innocent people doesn't hold the attraction that it did 20 years ago. I suplexed the man into the back seat and took him to the hospital, but drove slowly and used the longest route possible to make him comprehend the nature of his offence. I couldn't tell if he understood the 3 hour lecture I gave him about my need to train daily and the close connection between my physical shape and financial solvency. I still don't know what became of him. I visited him once at the ward and took him a cucumber and some plain mixed nuts. He had to know that I was glad he was pulling through, but the bland gifts represented my anger at the disruption to my schedule.

I think he's still alive, and I hope so too, because then he'd respect the importance of working out. His life would be all the better for it.

Now do I regret wrecking my routine to save the guy? I still don't know. I've come back to that question a thousand times, spent hundreds of hours assessing my reaction to the events of that day. Perhaps I saved his life, but I'll never get that afternoon back.