Don't toast the marshmallow...

No offense to Mr. Staypuft, but I have always been the true Marshmallow Man.



A statement like that needs plenty of explanation. I've always been a raw nerve kind of guy: sensitive to a fault and easily made to feel guilty. In a high school creative writing class, the teacher noticed me taking all criticism too closely to heart, and all negative comments from my classmates as indications that I was talentless. He dubbed me a "marshmallow," and it had nothing to do with my belly (it really did, with the whole endomorph motif, but that's another blog for another day). I was a big softy, and though I hated feeling like a ball of gooey mush, the teacher later advised me to never stop being a marshmallow, that such folks are needed.



I don't know if he was just full of bunk. It's purely possible. But he was right on the mark with his metaphor, and he should have been, as a creative writing teacher.



The fact is I've never taken well to personal intimidation or insults. I can stand my ground at angry sources upset over an article- I'm fully willing to defend myself on a basis of intellect and principle- but get in my face about something personal, and this marshmallow gets toasted. My parents realized that about me from a young age, and only years later shared with me their reasoning for keeping me out of certain activities.



Namely, as a kid, I wanted to play football. I had excellent hand-eye coordination, loved the feeling of making a big hit, and liked the down by down format. Run a play, gain some yards, catch your breath. It's the perfect formula for an out-of-shape athlete, thus the reason some NFL linemen look like they broke off from a glacier. I enjoyed playing football almost as much as basketball, and I daresay as much as watching "Saved by the Bell" repeats.


But organized football, like ice hockey and watching professional wrestling, playing with GI Joes, or microwaving my sister's Barbies, was strictly forbidden. For years, my parents told me they were worried I would get hurt, despite the fact that by the time I was approaching high school, I was bigger than most kids and the ideal size for a nose tackle or offensive lineman. I still found my way onto the football field, albeit in a marching band uniform instead of helmets and pads, but dreams of sacking quarterbacks weren't to be realized.


Years later, my father finally told the whole truth. Yes, he was worried about me getting hurt, or perhaps just as damaging to my own psyche, me injuring someone else. But the real reason was football coaches, the kind that grab players by the face mask, scream and spray spittle all over the place, then make them run laps. The thought of me on the other end of that face mask makes me cringe. My parents are smart people. They knew their son was a marshmallow, and they weren't going to let me become some angry coach's s'more.


I'd like to think things have changed, that my exterior is a little tougher. Yet whenever I watch "The Biggest Loser," (the season finale of which is playing in the background even as I type), I get angry whenever I see Jillian screaming at a contestant. If I was on the show- and a few years ago I was big enough for consideration- I'd melt under those screams and icy stares, and not in a lovelorn kind of way.


A showdown with Jillian would go one of three ways:

1. I'd get upset, beat myself up, quit the show, and suck down a carton of Americone Dream to cheer myself up.
2. I'd get upset, beat myself up, take out my guilt on myself through pushing myself too hard and launching into a pile of tears and asthma.
3. I'd get upset, beat myself up, not speak to anyone for several months, than appear at a reunion with a long beard and tendency to mutter uncontrollably to myself.


Tomorrow, I'm trying something I've never done before: personal training. No, I won't be training anyone (first thing to remember... always bring a clean rag to defog your glasses. No one likes steamy lenses!). A trainer is going to work with me for an hour or so, hopefully teaching me to do correctly all the exercises I've been doing wrong. Will I be sore on Thursday? Fair bet. Will I be better for the experience? I certainly hope so. Either way, it should be educational.


Let's just hope the trainer is less a Jillian and more someone non-intimidating and nurturing, like Raffi. Otherwise, and much to the chagrin on Baby Beluga, this marshmallow could once again get smushed.