By BRAD FISCHER
Guest Columnist
Editor’s Note: At 46, Brad Fischer, Brownsburg, was diagnosed with stage 4 gastric cancer. He was given one year to live. Brad’s memoir, The Sand Bucket List, chronicles his experiences and observations on life, often through humor. Scaramouch columnist Scott Saalman read the book over the holiday break, loved it, and wanted to give it the spotlight it deserves. The following is a condensed chapter. Buy Brad’s book on Amazon.
Tonya, my wife, enjoyed her workouts at Hoosier Trainer, a local gym in Brownsburg, owned and led by a young woman named Monica, and encouraged me to go with her to give it a try.
I was expecting other women to be there. What I wasn’t expecting was all women. I walked into the gym and immediately felt like a duck out of water. But I decided to man up and give it a shot.
Monica turned on the music and started us with some leg stretches, quickly moving side to side. I followed along the best I could, mimicking Monica’s moves. We went from stretches, to squats, bicep lunges, tricep kickbacks, lateral shoulder raises, and a host of other moves I was learning for the first time. And, although I had first thought that the weights I grabbed would be too light for me, I quickly realized that after the 150 reps we were doing, even the weight of my arms felt heavy. I was huffing and puffing and could feel my muscles aching, begging me to quit. I looked at the clock wondering if the fifty-minute workout was almost over, only to see that we were only ten minutes in.
It wasn’t only Monica’s encouragement that kept me moving; it was the commitment of all the others in the class. There were brief moments when we were all shuffling left and right to the music that I thought we must look like a bad MC Hammer music video. By the end, my T-shirt was wet with sweat. I felt proud and accomplished that I had completed the class without quitting or dying.
Our family schedule made it difficult for Tonya and me to return at the same time. I felt even more uncomfortable showing up without Tonya. I wanted to wear a T-shirt that said, “I’m not a creeper. I just like the workout.” I kept my head down and made my way to the back of the room trying to be as stealth-like as possible.
There is a large side garage door that Monica will leave open on nice weather days. I stood with my mat and weights quietly in the back, but right as the music began and Monica started counting our first set of squats, a young lady came up to me from behind and flatly said, “Excuse me. Could you get the f___ out?”
I wasn’t certain the F word rhymed with “duck.” However, I was pretty sure the message was the same: she was wanting me to leave. Maybe I should have worn the not a creeper T-shirt. Or maybe this workout truly was exclusive for women. She was smiling. My resentment and embarrassment were replaced by confusion. I assumed “get the frog out” was equal to “get the flip out” – a slightly softer and more playful way of asking me to exit. She clearly was not angry with me, but why was she asking me to leave?
“Can you get the frog out?” she repeated more clearly with the smile still on her face.
“You want me to get the frog out?”
She pointed to the floor along the back wall. Surprisingly – and delightfully – I witnessed a small frog hopping around. He wasn’t particularly good at keeping rhythm to the music and wasn’t even trying to follow Monica’s lead with the leg squats.
I briskly approached the frog, ready to confront his shenanigans. His random bouncing from side to side stopped and he froze along the wall. As I bent down to grab him, he took a giant leap forward, escaping my grasp. He hopped right and back left, I followed him, bent down, and scooped him up with my hands. I walked out of the garage door, set him on the ground and watched him rapidly hop away.
A couple of the ladies quietly clapped. The young lady who had brought the frog to my attention added in an affirming voice, “Thanks. You looked like someone who could handle a frog.”
I had faced my admission test and passed.
I still felt a little uncomfortable being the only guy in a gym full of women. My timing and rhythm in the workouts definitely needed some work. But I was someone who could redirect an adrift amphibian.
I was the guy who could catch a frog!
After my cancer diagnosis, what I found surprising is how much I missed Monica’s classes – not just the physical benefits, but the emotional and mental boost. As I was continuing my rounds of chemo, I started going again.
I started worrying less about what others may be thinking. I wasn’t there to impress anyone. I no longer focused on what I should look like or be able to do. I was there for me. I wanted to become a better version of myself – not just in my physical health but in all my personal qualities.
When it comes to working out – and life in general – the measure that matters most isn’t our waistline, the size of our biceps, or the baggage we bring into a room. What matters most is our tenacity to struggle and sweat, our eagerness to root each other on to do one more rep, our joy from dancing with others, our strength to let go of our fears and insecurities, and our courage to confront the obstacles in our lives. And yes . . . our fortitude, when necessary, to get the frog out!
Brad Fischer is the Senior Director of Data Analytics at Five Star Technology Solutions in Sellersburg, Ind.