25-3-12-W ☔ Afternoon
71 ⏳ 294 🗓️ W11
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🌡️58° – 48° ☁️ ☔ 🚣🏾♀️
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🏋️ Strength, Reflection & Resolution
The afternoon began with an unexpected detour—a reminder that even disciplined routines can unravel with surprising ease. After a particularly satisfying visit to the restroom—a triumph best described as a “type three extra-large” event—I realized I’d forgotten to shave. Marsha’s text regarding my blog had interrupted my usual morning rhythm, and by 12:35, I stood before the mirror, Braun electric shaver in hand.
The Braun—ever-reliable, steady as a heartbeat—hummed against my face. There’s a peculiar satisfaction in the precision of a well-designed tool, the kind that feels like an extension of yourself. As I carved away the shadowed stubble, Miles Davis’ Greatest Hits played in the background. His music—moody, defiant, yet undeniably controlled—seemed to sharpen my thoughts. Davis had a way of making tension feel intentional, as if he were taming chaos with each note.
Outside, the rain offered its own improvisation—drumming sporadically against the window, pausing just long enough to tempt me into believing the storm had passed. I seized the lull and headed to the Zone for a workout.
The Workout
The session proved productive—fifty minutes well spent. I targeted my calves, quadriceps, and biceps femoris, feeling the satisfying strain that signals muscles pushed to their limit. The discomfort wasn’t just expected—it was welcome.
Simone Weil once observed that “Every effort adds to our strength when we refuse to abandon the struggle.” Her words rang true with every dumbbell fly and press—five sets of fifteen repetitions each. Each strained motion seemed to affirm Weil’s belief that strength is less about brute force than the quiet refusal to surrender.
I also reintroduced the serratus crunch using the cable machine—an exercise I hadn’t attempted in eight months. Kneeling on a hard floor had previously discouraged me, but the presence of foldable mats eliminated that obstacle. It was a small convenience, yet one that underscored something profound: what deters us isn’t always the effort itself, but the discomfort that surrounds it.
Max Stirner’s assertion came to mind: “The strong man masters himself.” My avoidance of the serratus crunch hadn’t been about effort—it had been about resistance to discomfort. Mastery, as Stirner suggested, isn’t always about power; it’s about overcoming the small excuses that chip away at discipline. Inspired by that thought, I resolved to include the serratus crunch in my routine at least four times a week.
The workout ended with incline bench presses on a Hoist incline machine, followed by dumbbell shrugs. For most of the session, I had the room to myself—a quiet space for focus.
But towards the end, a towering figure entered the room—easily 6’8” or 6’9”—with a ponytail tied in a bun, a Ronaldo jersey, and dirty white ankle socks that practically cried out for a wash. The socks clung limply to his ankles like tired flags, neglected yet somehow stubbornly present. His attire seemed oddly deliberate, as if he’d balanced self-importance with indifference.
He hovered near the black, 20-pound dumbbells I was using—new dumbbells with a sleek finish, still sharp at the edges. When he realized I had them, he wordlessly shifted to another station. That quiet concession felt significant—less about gym etiquette than about restraint. In a world where ego flares easily, there’s something admirable about choosing silence over confrontation.
I thought of Baltasar Gracián’s words: “Let the wise man conquer by appearing to yield.” There’s power in walking away, in resisting the urge to assert dominance. That man, socks and all, had unwittingly reminded me of it.
Call from Gatsby
Upon returning to my room around 4:00 PM, I noticed a missed call from LA Fitness. The name: Gatsby Paredes. The call stemmed from an altercation on Saturday—an encounter with a man I’ll simply describe as regrettable.
Our 20-minute conversation revealed that the individual’s account mirrored mine. Three times this man had disrupted my workout—three deliberate intrusions that reeked of provocation. On the third occasion, my patience wore thin. Gatsby understood. His voice, steady and assured, carried the quiet conviction of someone who knows how to manage conflict.
“Coach is not to be disturbed,” he said. “I’ll make that clear.”
His words weren’t just protective—they were restorative. There’s a unique comfort in being defended, especially when your actions have been justified yet still weigh on your mind. As the call ended, I felt not just relieved but unexpectedly grateful.
I recalled the words of Hannah Arendt: “Power and violence are opposites; where the one rules absolutely, the other is absent.” Gatsby’s calm, assertive approach had neutralized tension without hostility. His strength lay in clarity, not aggression—a quiet but unmistakable form of power.
Conflict Resolution: The Hidden Strength
As I reflected on the day, it struck me that this wasn’t merely a lesson in strength—it was a lesson in conflict resolution. Both Gatsby and the tall man in the Ronaldo jersey had, in their own way, resolved conflict without hostility.
Gatsby’s handling of the situation demonstrated three key principles of effective conflict resolution:
1. Emotional Control: Gatsby’s calm tone set the tone for resolution. Instead of reacting emotionally, he responded with intention. As Epictetus taught, “It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.”
2. Clear Boundaries: By stating firmly that “Coach is not to be disturbed,” Gatsby set a clear, non-negotiable boundary. He didn’t threaten or antagonize—he simply removed uncertainty, which often fuels conflict.
3. Choosing Resolution Over Retaliation:
I had played my part as well by allowing Gatsby to handle the situation. In doing so, I chose resolution over retribution—a choice that requires discipline and patience. As Sun Tzu advised, “The greatest victory is that which requires no battle.”
These moments reminded me that conflict doesn’t always demand force; it demands focus. By mastering our emotions, defining clear boundaries, and knowing when to walk away, we create space for resolution to emerge.
Reflections of Gratitude
Today reminded me that strength wears many faces. It’s found in the quiet resistance of muscles pushed to failure, in the silent wisdom of choosing to walk away, and in the calm assurance of someone willing to stand in your corner.
The towering man in the gym—his jersey declaring confidence, his socks revealing neglect—wasn’t just a curious figure. He was a reminder that composure is rarely tidy. Sometimes it shows up in quiet gestures, in averted conflict, in the decision to let tension dissolve rather than ignite.
And Gatsby’s response underscored something equally important: strength is most meaningful when paired with restraint. The person who shouts may seem powerful, but true power is the ability to stay silent—because silence speaks when words cannot.
Michel de Montaigne’s words lingered in my mind: “Valor is stability, not of legs and arms, but of courage and the soul.”
Montaigne’s insight speaks to something vital—that valor isn’t forged in moments of visible strength, but in those quiet moments where we resist being swept away by impulse. The man in the Ronaldo jersey demonstrated this by walking away from a potential conflict. Gatsby displayed it by turning tension into resolution through calm words rather than force.
And in my own small way, I saw it when I resisted the urge to dwell on irritation or frustration. Choosing patience with the gym encounter, embracing the discomfort of the serratus crunch, and accepting Gatsby’s steady resolve—each moment reflected what Montaigne described.
True strength isn’t the absence of struggle; it’s the ability to meet discomfort with steadiness, to let self-mastery prevail over impulse. Valor isn’t forged in the heat of battle—it’s nurtured in the quiet refusal to let chaos dictate your path.
Today, I chose stability. And in that choice, I found something far greater than strength.
RMSD
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