Ripped . . . or at Least Torn

Yes, I know.  I know that my electronic devices are spying on me.  I know that they have been for years.  They watch my every movement, my actions, and reactions.  They know my “likes” and “dislikes”.  They know my habits.  They even know my moods.  However, I was I use my cell phone, computer, and even my digital girls—Alexa and Siri.  The technological world knows me better than I know myself.

Or so it thinks it does.

 

Using advanced algorithms beyond my elementary understanding of mathematics, the data is compiled and analyzed to give suggestions about everything in my life.  Musical suggestions for my listening pleasure.  Movies and series for my entertainment.  Shopping advertisements.  Spirts blurbs.  If I have ever shown an interest, it magically appears through advertisements on the Internet pages I am perusing.  Why?  Because it knows me.

 

I will admit it is pretty darn amazing at what it does and does know about me.  It knows that I am over the age of sixty.  With that knowledge it bombards me with advertisements it thinks are relevant to me and the lifestyle it believes I should be living.  I suppose I should be thankful that someone or something cares about me.  It is better than nothing.  But frankly . . . it needs to butt out.

 

This tirade is brought to you by the apparent sense that this technology thinks that I am far from being the ideal Adonis a person in his mid-sixties should be.  As I was reading the new source on my computer I was inundated with a slew of advertisements for losing weight, shoring up my hairstyle, creating the perfect wardrobe, and creating a rock-hard body of impressive muscle.  That last one is what set off this rant.  It specifically challenged me to get “ripped” after the age of sixty.

 

I had to laugh.

 

“Ripped” can mean a lot of things.  It can mean when cloth or fabric gets torn.  If that’s what is meant . . . well, I’m a klutz and ripping things comes quite naturally to me.  “Ripped” can mean get lectured or chewed out when making a mistake.  It has been a while, but I have been “ripped” numerous times throughout my life.  At work.  The last time was when doing a video conference with a group from the office hoping to get a grant.  I wore my tee shirt that said, “Eww, people!”  My boss informed me that it was inappropriate especially when attempting to get funding from people.  I got ripped for that one.

 

Another way that “ripped” is used is to mean being under the influence of alcohol or drugs.  It has been a while since I have been “ripped” in that manner.  Which is probably for the best since I tend to do and say dumb things that end up with clothing being “ripped” and me ending up being “ripped” by significant others. So, in my mind, where does technology get off suggesting that I—in my mid-sixties—need to get “ripped”?  I have been there and done that.

 

Of course, that is not what they mean by “ripped”.  What they mean by the word is to have a “strong, well-developed muscles that can be seen through the skin.”  It means having low body fat, so the muscles stick out for everyone to see in awe.  High muscle definition.  Low fat.  “Ripped”.

 

I had to laugh once I got over the sting of being insulted.  Apparently, they do not know me as well as they think they do.  I have a better than average chance of tearing the bottom out of my pants . . . of screwing up and being yelled at . . . or tying on a good one—all forms of being “ripped”—than I do of ever having the well-defined muscular body of someone like the Rock.

 

Let’s get some things straight.  At my age—mid-sixties, remember—I stopped at the line of dieting and exercising to become this century’s Jack LaLanne.  Don’t know who he is?  I am not going to cross the line.  I like to eat.  Exercise is hard and is work.  In my mid-sixties, nearly completely retired, I do not want hard and work in my vocabulary or life.  To be “ripped” in the muscular sense is to do both.  Trust me, I know.  You can’t have your cake and eat it too.  Not if you want to be “ripped”.  I like cake.

 

Second of all, I have never been “ripped” in the muscular sense since the day I was born. I wasn’t “ripped” in high school or college.  Believe it or not, I looked more like a poster boy for one of those third world countries during a famine.  Skinny is an apt term.  Despite years of running, I was never “ripped”.  Being “ripped” then was never my dream.  Then or now.  It wasn’t my destiny.  Never had the desire.  In my mid-sixties . . . why start now.

 

But technology is a persistent advocate of what it believes I should do and be.  I appreciate the tenacity of its pursuit and persistence of me and my body.  It attempts to soothe my anxiety over body image and age.  It proclaims that it is easy to become “ripped”, promising me only minutes in the day to become the spitting image of Hercules.  Plus, it won’t cost me a cent.  I can use what is in the house.  To prove its point, it shares all sorts of “ripping” activities I can do using a chair in the comfort of home.

 

Chairs are made for sitting.  They are not some sort of exercise equipment found in a gym.  If they were, why aren’t gyms filled with chairs instead of all those weights and exercise machines?  My favorite chair is my recliner.  It serves all my needs.  I can exercise my mind by reading.  I can exercise my soul by looking out the window and viewing all the avian activity.  It provides rest after a long day and gives me some of the best naps when I kick back and put my legs up.  It fills my heart as pups and grandchildren hop in my lap for some cuddling and story time.  That’s the purpose of a chair.  To feed the soul, not make a “ripped” body.

 

I smile as I write this.  It will probably tick off technology when it reads my blog.  It will probably ramp up its game in learning who I really am.  I don’t know why it thinks it can understand me so easily and quickly when my wife hasn’t been able to in over forty years of marriage.  I guess I “ripped” technology a good one.  I’m as “ripped” as I’m ever going to be.  You’d be hard pressed to find the musculature of a Rock one this body I call mine.  The Rock—no!  Closer to the popping fresh Pillsbury Doughboy.  Yet, somewhere under that plumb physique is a “ripped” me dying to get out—NOT!!  I’m happy just the way I am.  Torn, but not quite “ripped”.