December 6, 1994 Tuesday
Today is Grandma Carlson’s birthday. She is 81 years old. I hope she is getting along in her nursing home. Dad got her a cake last night.
Let’s get straight to it. I hate getting on a freezing bus at 9:42 in the morning. I hate changing in a drafty basement of an pre-Depression gymnasium. I hate struggling to lift something like seventy pounds. And I hate doing this every day. I wouldn’t mind if I did it, for a while, in privacy and had about six months to work on it. This is only about the fifth time I’ve lifted in my life, so of course I’m weak. Even still, I told Les Rose today, “I do like lifting, and the idea of it, because when it’s basketball we play all hour in front of everyone. When we lift, we do it for thirty seconds, with a few other novices.” I spoke too soon. I would like to get stronger. Maybe I could get a few weights and work out downstairs this winter. When baseball comes I’d be buff. Are you smiling too?
No One Will Believe You 