I’m listening to Can’t Hurt Me by, you guessed it, David Goggins, and it’s making me feel like a worthless piece of shit. This dude lost 106 pounds in 3 months so he could try to be a Navy SEAL, went through hell week 3 times, and only made it the last time through by running on broken – BROKEN – legs, then decided that he wasn’t badass enough, so he decided to become an ultra marathoner (that’s 100+ mile races, btw)… And I’m only about halfway through the book.
Damn it, man.
I’m reading this because my brother is reading it. He calls me today and asks me if I’m ready for the marathon tonight. He’s running a fucking marathon tonight because Goggins convinced him to chase the path of most resistance.
Seriously. Damn it, man.
He asks me, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how crazy is this?”
My older brother. He’s 42. He’s married with three kids. He and his wife work full time. The kids have all the usual extra curricular activities. They have 7 dogs. A couple of cats. A yard to mow and friends to pal around with, and he still finds time to work out on a regular basis. When I say work out, I mean the dude’s jacked. He’s like a bald, enthusiastic gorilla.
Me? I’m doing good if I manage to get my dishes from my desk to the sink a few feet away.
This isn’t even taking into account all the fucking books he reads, the languages he studies, his involvement with the church. I’ve lived my life looking up to this dude who accomplishes damn near everything anyone could possibly ask a man to do.
And then he discovers mother fuckin’ David goddamn Goggins, and suddenly he’s only operating at 40% of his potential, so he’s gotta run a freaking marathon on a whim.
Damn it, man.
I guess I’m getting on my stationary bike. This is not what I wanted to do today.