From Shawarma to Swing Sets: A Kettlebell Fitness Cultist Takes a Break

I took a rare sabbatical from my kettlebell gospel this Memorial Sunday to bask in the company of my cousin Pete and Aunt Sherry in Studio City—because even iron addicts need a cheat day, preferably one involving shawarma and nostalgia. We spent eight hours doing what old relatives do best: eating like we’re about to hibernate, name-dropping concerts that smelled like patchouli and regret, and arguing over which decade had the best moral compass (spoiler: none of them).

Pete and I go way back—Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco clambakes, enough Passover seders to qualify for spiritual overtime. Our shared memories stretch across seven decades like a shag carpet in a time-warped rec room.

The weather, because of course it was, clocked in at 75 degrees—sunny, breezy, and just obnoxiously pleasant. So much so, we weren’t content with one perfect meal. We closed the day with Korean barbecue that tasted like it had been grilled by angels on a smoke break. Then came the real miracle: we took the 405 back to Torrance and hit no traffic. That’s not just a good omen—it’s borderline apocalyptic.

When we got home, I turned to my wife and said, “The day was too perfect. Should I call a priest or a statistician?”

Once the existential dread of joy wore off, I returned to my senses and thought I’ll be 64 soon. I need to map out my plan to slam heavy iron for the rest of my natural life. A sacred vow, if you will:

• Follow Mark Wildman’s mantra: “Train injury-free today so you can train tomorrow”—not “break yourself now to impress your ego.”
  
• Heed Pavel’s wisdom: Push to 80–90% failure, not 100%, because no one gets a trophy for tearing their rotator cuff.
  
• Devour 200 grams of protein a day like it’s my job—and in a way, it is.
  
• Keep calories under 2,400 so I don’t end up looking like I survived Passover but lost to diabetes.
  
• Be grateful for my garage gym—no excuses, no sweaty strangers, no corporate playlists.
  
• Appreciate that my workout intensity still rivals that of my teenage self in the 1970s, minus the acne and naïve dreams of Olympic glory.
  
• And above all, give thanks that my family doesn’t stage an intervention every time I start rhapsodizing about kettlebell geometry.
  

In conclusion, it was a dangerously perfect day—full of grilled meats, shared myths, and suspiciously easy freeway exits. I’m not saying I’m suspicious of happiness, but I’m definitely side-eyeing it.