The “Super” Suit

I don’t know how to explain it, but there is magic in the black exercise clothes I wear when I work out.
Let me tell you what I mean.
I am well into the last third of my life.
For some reason after a coronary bypass I decided to get in shape and do 10 “pullups” before I die.
I needed to lose about 120 pounds or the equivalent of a 12 year old and then grow some muscle. I needed to develop some “limberosity” that is some “bendability” and finally some endurance.
So this trainer, a 54 year old woman who looks like she is 28, and who is also a professional body builder agreed to work with me. I was on trial.
I have never been on trial before, I was always at the top of my game in my profession and now I had to admit, I was the sweaty, grossly obese late middle aged male as I frequently described my next patient.
I was short of breath after one flight of stairs and lifting ten pounds was a struggle as was getting the lid off the pickle jar.
So how is it going?
I no longer work out with my trainer; I do that on my own. Instead I joined her Ultimate fitness class. This class includes innumerable methods for inducing great pain and suffering in muscle groups I didn’t even know I had. I am reluctant to continue every time I think about going which is three times a week.
But here is where it gets interesting.
Before I go to class, I suit up.
First I pull on a cyclist Jersey and a pair of biking shorts and I notice the pain is going away. I walk into the bathroom and look into the mirror, I still look old but now the pain is basically gone and I can afford a small smile. So I go back to bedroom and slip on a short sleeved exercise t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts and no pain can be found.
Now I go out, get in the car and drive to the gym. I am almost euphoric as I open the door to the gym and walk inside. I throw my stuff in the locker and wrap my hands, take my boxing gloves, pick up a towel and stride, yes stride, not shuffle to the workout room. I know I will breath like a drowning pig at he peak of the exercise, I know my thinking will slow, I know my nail beds and lips will turn dusky purple as the intensity of the exercise continues, unabated for one hour, but I will feel no pain. I will have become impervious to the vicissitudes of pain just like other super heroes when they don their costumes.
Could superman fly without his suit, I don’t think so. Could Batman become the Dark Knight with out his suit, I don’t think so.
Could I exercise without my “suit”? I don’t think so.
On returning home as I slip out of the exercise togs, the pain creeps back, ever so slowly at first but by midnight has me wrapped tightly in its grip and I am content. I have my own super hero suit and it serves me well. Someday I may decide to never take it off.