The art of manliness

[READ COLUMN IN THE CAVALIER DAILY]

It’s a question I get all the time — “Nick, how did you get to be so darned manly?”

The answer I give to people is never clear. Typically, I just demonstrate the old front double biceps pose, followed by a simple front abdominal/thigh isolation pose and then insist emphatically, “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The signs are all there: gigantic cinder blocks of muscle popping out of every conceivable area of my body (scientists recently discovered that I have more muscle in my index finger than the average adult male has in his entire arm), massive amounts of facial hair, a tendency to single-handedly construct large buildings when bored, hitting puberty at age seven and owning more Old Spice products than socks.

But to truly understand what makes me the juiciest piece of meat on a college campus since Rainn Wilson, all one really needs to do is take a look at my typical day on Grounds.

I start off my day like everybody else — I get up at 5 a.m., put on my headphones, blast my Moby playlist and commence stretching. This is in preparation for my light four-hour morning weight-lifting session, a great way to prepare my body for the grind of the rest of the day, which consists mostly of more weight-lifting.

Before hitting the weights, though, I need to eat a nice hearty breakfast. The first step in making this important meal is, obviously, going outside to find a wild animal to slaughter. Usually this is a squirrel, a rabbit or a moose — anything with plenty of protein. I then place the animal’s meat in the blender and add two slices of Swiss cheese, nine scoops of protein powder, 2.5 wild raspberries, a Pop-Tart, two ounces of shaving cream, 76 cents, three cloves of garlic and a plate of leftover spaghetti.

After gulping down the shake, it’s time to decide what to wear to the weight room. This is the part where I open my empty dresser and remember that all my shirts were ruined on account of my biceps ripping the sleeves open. Then I grab my Mach-6 Ultra-Turbo Power Razor and commence shaving my mutton chops, which grow overnight and usually take a good hour to completely shave off. Then it’s off to the gym!

I don’t mess around in the weight room. If someone else is using the bench press when I get there, I tell him to get the hell off and help me stack all the weights we can find onto the bar. After loading as many 45-pound weights onto the bar as possible, I make a couple people sit on the bar to add more weight. After cranking out several dozen sets of several dozen repetitions on the bench press, I proceed to cool down by maxing out on every other machine on the first floor of the AFC.

At this point my incredibly high testosterone levels have invaded the neurotransmitters in my brain and taken over my entire cerebral cortex, which means my competitive juices are flowing like Niagara Falls. I enter the basketball courts and, after owning everyone in several one-on-five pick-up games, challenge everyone to arm wrestling contests. After dismembering several grown men’s limbs, I realize it’s almost noon, meaning it is time to go to class.

But I don’t go to class. Because I’m a real man, and real men avoid intellectual activity at all costs. After all, it’s only going to result in a larger brain, and why waste that expansion potential on a muscle you can’t even see? No, I typically spend my afternoons running laps between Charlottesville and Richmond. I try to squeeze in at least six laps, stopping only to consume eight to 10 cans of spinach, squirting them Popeye-style past my gargantuan Adam’s apple.

Evenings are spent fending off the hordes of females who camp out in front of my door. It can get pretty crowded.

OK, so I forgot to mention that the females are cats, searching for left-over bits of squirrels and such. It’s late, and I need my beauty rest. There are a lot of weights that need lifting tomorrow …

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