The Simple Joy of Picking Up and Putting Down Heavy Things

How a neurotic overthinking geek can benefit from absolutely crushing it on the bench press

My college campus had an old rec center that was pretty much just a big warehouse filled with sweat-logged, outdated equipment. The rafters echoed with the ear-splitting clang of metal against metal, the throaty grunts of Big Fergus abusing the squat rack, the panting of two dozen freshmen staving off the encroaching beer weight on the treadmills. Grip a battered dumbbell, and you’d feel the rough rub of dry skin left from the thousands of calloused hands that had held those weights since 1979. Instead of air conditioning, giant fans ran along the walls, stirring the collective stench up into a sort of smell tornado that could easily overpower those of a weak constitution.

I loved it.

And now, almost a decade later, I think I’ve realized why. This column is about that love—a love that has something to do with writing, overthinking, and the simple joy of picking up and putting down heavy things.

Having played football in high school … OK, I’ll be honest. Having warmed benches in high school, I’d lifted weights a few times, but never consistently or with any serious intent. It wasn’t until one fall day my junior year of college that I decided to timidly brush past the giant dudes bench pressing in that gross rec center, pick up a couple 10-pound barbells, and try a couple weak curls.

I figured that I had extra time on my hands and the gym was a short walk from my dorm, so why not? (Also, all those late-night mozzarella sticks at the dining hall were starting to make themselves known along the ol’ waistline.)

Surrounded by people who were in great shape, struggling to lift what little I could, I felt like the biggest geek in existence. It probably didn’t help that I’d worn my Lord of the Rings T-shirt and cargo shorts with knee-high black socks—but that’s beside the point. I swallowed my self-consciousness and got through a few rudimentary exercises.

The next day, I woke remarkably sore. I’d been assured by fit folks I knew that this soreness meant I’d had a good workout, which was weird because it mostly just felt like I’d been hit by a car. Despite the aches and pains, I decided to return to the gym and try a few other lifts the next day.

Fast-forward six months, and the mozzarella weight was gone. And if you cocked your head, squinted, and shined a high-powered flashlight at just the right angle, you could almost see the hint of biceps on my arms. With even those minimal results, lifting had me hooked.

Fast-forward eight years, and now I lift weights six days a week. It’s part of my routine, like brushing my teeth, washing my hair, and re-applying my temporary Swamp Thing back tattoo.

Last Friday night, I was at the gym after a long day at work, bench pressing to the dulcet tunes of Midwestern Sludge Metal in my headphones, as I often do. My arms ached, my breath came in low pants, cold sweat soaked my shirt, and from just a few sniffs anyone nearby could easily tell that my deodorant was fighting a losing battle.

While I pushed the weight off my chest, a question came to mind:

Why was I doing this?

A very good question. I could be doing anything else with my time off—reading, exploring the fields and prairies, charming the ladies at the Friday Night Fish Fry. I’m not an athlete. I’m certainly not a bodybuilder. I can maintain a basic level of healthiness without lifting this often or this intensely. So why do I give so much of my time to throwing weights around in sweaty gyms?

I thought up a list of reasons in between sets—chasing endorphins, cultivating discipline, channeling rage, burning enough calories that I could justify eating three donuts the next day. They were all legitimate reasons (and damn, those donuts were delicious), but none of them felt like the answer to my question. They were parts of it, sure, but they weren’t the big reason.

When I returned home from the gym that night, the question followed me, much like the neighborhood possums do. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and then, while I was feeding the possums their nightly ground chuck, the reason hit me—and it was a bit unexpected.

What I love about lifting weights is that it’s nothing like writing.

You see, writing is how I spend most of my time and effort, sitting at a desk thinking and typing and editing and thinking more. And some people—such as my family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, Uber drivers, etc.— say I’m neurotic about it.

Just one example: This is the fourth column I wrote for today. I had one ready to publish that I re-read and then thought was too niche. Decided to nix it. Then I went back to an old draft, edited it, started second-guessing the premise, decided it wasn’t funny or interesting, and trashed it. Then I tried to write another one that ended up feeling too personal and sentimental. Trash. And now I’m writing this one.

Even after I finish a piece, I can’t banish the overthinking voice that questions whether it was actually any good, how it could have been better, why I should never have written it in the first place, how stupid it actually is, all the ways I suck as both a writer and a person.

There’s none of that when I’m lifting weights.

I don’t overthink. I don’t worry. I don’t catastrophize. I just pick up the heavy thing and put it back down eight times. Done. Next week, if I can do that again with a slightly heavier thing, then that’s good.

It provides a much-needed break from the mental and a reintroduction to the physical. My mind calms when I leave the desk behind for the gym. Whatever I’m writing at the time might be ripping my brain to shreds, but for just a few minutes that fades behind the immediacy of pushing and pulling. And when I’m done, I can’t doubt my accomplishment away the same way I can with writing. (No matter how hard I might try.) I did go to the gym. I did lift that weight.

And funny enough, I’ve found that when I return to my desk after a good workout, the writing is often easier. Ideas break free when I’m distracted by lifting. I have more energy. I’m not as lost in recursive and often self-defeating thought about my words.

That’s the love I discovered as a geeky college kid in cargo shorts. And that’s the love I still have today, as a geeky 20-something in cargo shorts. (Don’t judge—they’re both versatile and stylish.) It’s a love that I certainly never expected to find when I first walked into that sweaty, smelly rec center, but it’s one I cherish now, one that I realize has become a cornerstone of my writing practice.

So am I saying that every writer needs to buy a jug of protein powder, strap on a weight belt, and start ripping squats? Nope. (Although it would be pretty funny if we all did—just imagine the army of jacked nerds.) But I will say it’s been helpful for me. And now when the neurotic overthinking and self-doubt are at their worst, I know it’s time to pick up and put down some heavy things.

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