Why Is Working Out Central to Psychological Well-Being?
My father wasn’t a bad guy. Sure, “Lenny” was a very macho kind of Jew, a rare breed, but he helped liberate the camps during WWII. He grew up dirt poor in NYC during the Great Depression, and he had to drop out of high school to help support his parents, Aaron and Miriam (for you Bible geeks, that deserves a chuckle). It wasn't his fault that he won the war in Germany but lost the war in the Bronx. I remember overhearing my mother (Penny) and father argue over whether I should be an "NJB" (a Nice Jewish Boy) or a Tough Street Kid like my him.
We know who won that argument. Penny’s mien resembled that of Sophia Loren, or when she was smoking a Pall Mall, Jackie O. A petit lady with a girlish charm, she prided herself on being one helluva balboosta, a Yiddish word for the perfect homemaker and the fearless emotional center of the family. In other words, “over my dead body.”
Despite that loss, Lenny couldn't help heaping some expectations on me. Keep in mind, I was the eldest son, which, in a Jewish family, is not unlike being the returning Messiah. And, although my father's more “Americanized” family were not nearly as pious as my mother's “Old World,” Yiddish-only one, (more on her parents, Ida and Gustave later), the Sadownick clan did derive from the ancient Hebrew Priestly class—the Kohanim. And my mother's family, came from the Levine—the Levites. Only two tribes out of the original 12 from Ancient Israel have remained, and each parent represented a tribe. So, we were hot shit.
And, of course, I would try my darndest to make Lenny happy! Even if it killed me. I played Little League for one miserable year, with buck teeth and braces, to boot!
But, playing baseball in the rainy (read: muddy) Bronx spring was one thing. Being forced to fist-fight on the streets with my father training me was another. Yes, that milestone did indeed happen! But after that three-week period, in which he (successfully!) taught me how to punch some of those Italian bullies in the freezing winter, all the while screaming at me from the sidelines to "deck him," and obeying his command (quite well, I might add), I put my foot down. No more straight male initiations! Enough! Dayenu!
Eventually, Lenny was able to love me for being high-achieving, getting into Columbia College, and publishing a well-selling, hot gay novel (which he actually read, cover-to-cover). We could talk until sunrise about philosophy and his beloved Jack London. I know there were other factors related to his own alleged sexual confusion that (we believe) took place in the Army and that contributed to complex relationship to me, der gracer (the eldest). But circa 1997, I was a rebellious, angry, young gay man who took no shit, not even from him. It did not end well for us when the end came for him. I tell all this in my memoir. It's taken a minute, but I forgive us both now.
Still, as an adult, I have refused to allow this early trauma to interfere with my own journey into physical fitness. To make up for any inherited deficits, I know I must work with a trainer for help and motivation.
About four years ago, when my then-trainer Devonrick Johnson left town, I was on the look-out for a new PT person. But could anyone match the class of Devonrick?
Enter Mr. Payton G. Young, stage right.
The God of Fate led me to bump into Payton Young at L.A. Fitness. He was all of 19-years-of-age, but we started to train like beasts in a combination of High Intensity Aerobic/Weight-Lifting Training (that he choreographed to loud rap music) four or five days a week. A survivor of his own struggles as an African American male trying to make it in a racist world, Payton had no patience for chit-chat or whining. I lost 30 freaking pounds in a matter of six months, and my endurance and conditioning went through the roof!
Remember, I’m a therapist. Payton's tough guy routine could not disguise the truth of his being in possession of a big, wise heart. There is a fascinating story here. Over the years, Payton and I have both adopted each other and have become a new kind of family with daily interaction. We have done a lot to bridge the alleged gulf between "gay" and "straight." We've been through hell and back. He still trains me in the backyard gym we developed in mid-city, but he has garnered for himself an impressive work/life space downtown.
I am proud of him and he has done much to improve my life on a daily basis.
In this space I will post on training, progress being made, and life struggles—not to mention some great musical references—as I try to answer the question of “why working out is central to psychological well-being?"