I hear many bloggers & podcasters say: “Many people ask me about…” or “I get asked a lot…” and I think to myself, aw c’mon bro—nobody’s asking you that.
I feel like Mike Fiers sharing this but a “content creator’s” dream is for their daily lives to be so intriguing to others that their inboxes are flooded with questions about small details of their lives. Dream on. Besides, a blogger doesn’t need to be asked whether he fasted this morning or had a great workout—he’s going to share that with you anyway.
Can you imagine a blogger visiting an emergency care facility and not sharing the experience online? Her precious niche would be irrelevant. That’s because for her, the clinic visit is “content.” Whatever happened can easily be incorporated into a ‘lifestyle,’ personal finance or fitness-related blog.
Truth is, people don’t much care you got a “boo-boo” on your knee—they’re too focused on their own lives. Remember in high school when you’d get a honker pimple on your beak and worried everyone would call you “Rudolph?” Well, it didn’t happen. Why not? Because everyone was wrapped up in their own misgivings—the gal who might’ve called you Rudolph feared being labeled slutty Vixen for spinning the bottle at the moon tower.
The digital media world is sort of like that—except rather than hope their schnoz goes unnoticed, a lifestyle blogger would sooner filter their face and beg for attention.
Maybe you’re thinking I’ve overreached. I am, after all, a blogger myself. So here I will admit I’m not above the fray. That is to say, when faced with the prospect of irrelevancy, I’m first to apply “Oslo” on IG Stories for the homies & has-beens. In fact, if you’ve been following my adventures on social media, you know that I post a monthly picture “from the treadmills” on Facebook & Instagram.
My monthly snap serves a few purposes. First, it lets friends, family & followers know where I am in the world (currently Mexico). Second, it lets folks know that regardless of where I am, I will get to the gym.
Many people ask me about my workouts.
I usually start on a bike or treadmill to loosen my legs. However, my first time on a treadmill this month was disastrous—I had a terrible accident before I could even take my “gram.”
Then in a moment of weakness, I made a desperate plea for attention, posting pictures & videos of my injuries on IG. The wounds I sustained set it off to another level—they looked freak-nasty without a shovel.
But guess what? Nobody cares about your problems, least of all your minor health issues, as they see it.
Let me take you back to when I was 11 years old. My dad said I couldn’t lift weights till puberty. So every night before a shower, I’d check in the mirror under my left arm to see if this one armpit follicle showed any signs of life.
Time moves slowly when you’re waiting for hair to sprout. Ironically, time speeds up when you’re trying to hold on to them for dear life.
Finally one night in ’92, a super strand came through. I tried to keep from grinning next time I saw my dad.
I said, “Dad, do you think I can start lifting weights?”
He said, “I’ve already told you when you can start.”
I said, “I know. And I’m ready!”
He nodded in the direction of my junk without breaking eye contact. “You think you’ve got hair-n-all down there? And under your arms-n-everything?”
“Sure do!” I lied.
And the gym has been a non-negotiable for me ever since.
In those early days, I worked out because I wanted to look like Marky Mark in the Good Vibrations video. Now I do it for health reasons and bathroom selfies.
Exercise, for me, is a keystone habit—a concept I learned from The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg. He says a keystone habit is a routine or behavior from which many other good habits flow.
When I go to the gym, I eat cleaner, read more (on the bike & before bed), make more friends (at least back when people used to smile & say hello), have more energy, sleep better, and much more. Exercise is my first domino to fall. Other good habits follow, which lead to many positive outcomes.
Back to the treadmill. I was doing a stretch off the back end so that I could reach beyond my toes—same stretch I’ve done a thousand times—keeps the hammies loose while running sprints. This time when I slowly reached down to fully extend my hands, the machine sucked my fingers underneath the conveyor and I struggled to pull them out. My skin was being removed at 11.7 mph—the speed I’d chosen to do my next sprint.
I finally dislodged my digits and danced around the gym in agony. It burned like hell. Felt like my fingers were on fire.
A friendly chica walked me to the nearest emergency care. The doctor said, “Hola!” and asked what happened. I did more “show” than “tell,” like we were playing charades—the pain was so great I couldn’t keep still.
He watched my performance and said something about me not being the sharpest cuchillo in the drawer.
I said a knife didn’t do this – it was a treadmill. Could’ve been a language barrier.
I haven’t been able to run, lift or sleep through the night since before the accident. But it’s been amazing to watch skin regenerate. Anyway, I was anxious to share. I get asked a lot when I’m going to post this month’s photo from the treadmills.
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch!