While I’ve made good progress in my aforementioned muscle-gain efforts, I recently began to question whether the results were worth the work. Up twelve pounds of lean mass, and the difference was only slightly noticeable. Should I keep packing on the pounds, I wondered? And, if so, how many?

Sure, I had a sense of what might happen if I went wildly too far; Sylvester Stallone and I, for example, measure in at the same height, though he tips the scales a solid 50 pounds past my comparatively svelte 145. But while I’d have no desire to climb anywhere near Rocky’s steroidal ridiculosity, there’s certainly a rather large gray area between me and the former (fictional) heavyweight champion of the world. Wasn’t there some more aesthetic weight in between, I wondered? One where people, upon seeing me, might assume that I went to the gym, but not that I lived there?

Then, this weekend, as part of a wild movie-watching spree (an occupational hazard of film producing), I popped in to catch The Italian Job, a bland yet resonably enjoyable big-budget heist film. After, rooting around the web to find the various stars’ filmographies, I discovered that Mark Wahlberg also matches my height, and weighs in just past 165. There was my answer. While I don’t wear Rambo-esque headbands (okay, maybe occasionally), I certainly own enough Calvin Klein’s to make Marky Mark proud.

So, 165. Not that I could pack on another fifteen or twenty pounds of muscle any time soon. But it’s nice to know that, if I could, it would likely be well worth the work.

Most people, while under stress, gain weight. I, on the other hand, lose it. After several months of producing I Love Your Work, I therefore noticed I had dropped down to the bottom reaches of my acceptable weight range. Which is why, about a month back, with beach season (or, at least, bicep-baring t-shirt season) fast encroaching, I figured it was time to hit the gym with the intent of bulking up. The plan in a nutshell:

1. Join a gym. Mid-City Gym (49th and 8th), being two blocks off and $45 a month, seemed the right choice. Sure, it’s short on glitz and Tae-bo compared to the $150 a month gyms nearby, but as the former New York training ground of such heavies as Ah-nold and Lou Ferrigno it certainly seemed good enough for my cause.

2. Lift weights. As it’s worked for me before in packing back on the pounds, following the Hardgainer approach of short, intense, infrequent workouts with heavy weights.

3. Eat a lot. Building muscle requires a caloric surplus, something my metabolism, which runs at a rather disturbingly fast rate, works hard to prevent. (As one friend pointed out, since research in rats has shown slowing metabolism extends lifespan, given the speed at which mine burns, I’ll probably keel over by the time I hit thirty.) I already tend to naturally eat five or six meals a day; bulking up mainly involves increasing the size of each feeding. Thank god for FreshDirect.

The results? One month in, and I’ve packed on nearly ten pounds of muscle while keeping my body fat below 10%. Still, I’m thinking I’ll keep adding weight for a bit longer, just to see where it takes me. While I have no desire to hit anything close to the steroidal bodybuilding look, as Stallone (the same height as I am) was a good fifty pounds beyond my current weight back in his Rocky days, I think I still have a fair bit of leeway before I’m mistaken for Hans or Franz.

Earlier today, I hit the mats at the New York Aikikai for my third Aikido class. It’s good to be back to training a martial art regularly, after my eight or nine month self-imposed hiatus – last summer, I had recurrently dislocated my right shoulder while sparring in preparation for a mixed martial arts (i.e. “no holds barred”) tournament, and I took the time off to rest up my rotator cuff before seriously damaging myself. During the break, however, I started giving some serious thought to my motivation for training, as with a bit of distance, I began to see the brutal violence inherent in Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu (the two arts I was studying at the time) didn’t square well with my more peaceful overall view of the world.

So, in the hopes of finding an art more philosophically in tune with myself, I decided to return to Aikido, which I had studied for about eight months while a student at Yale. A system of throws and joint locks derived from jujitsu, Aikido focuses not on punching or kicking opponents, but on using their own energy to gain control of them or to throw them away. Frequently referred to as “the art of peace,” Aikido is effective while inherently non-aggressive, focusing on neutralizing opponents without injuring them. So far, at least, it seems like the perfect match, and I’m thinking I may jettison the other arts in favor of training solely Aikido.

And, as an added bonus, I’ve also been perversely enjoying the exceeding frustration of starting a complicated art as a complete beginner. It’s been a while since I’ve forced myself to regularly do something at which I’m so very, very bad.

To continue being a whiny bitch: yesterday, while at the gym, I threw out my neck. Mid-way through a heavy leg press, my phone rang; apparently, a sudden head motion while straining every muscle in your body isn’t a good idea.

On the plus side, I’ve now picked up a great set of Mr. Roboto-esque moves involving turning my entire body rather than simply my head any time I need to look to the side. Sort of retro ’80s breakdance chic.

Several months back, I dislocated my shoulder in a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu match. Then, soon after, I made matters worse by assuming my shoulder was fine and military pressing with too much weight, degenerating into poor form that further impinged the shoulder. I decided to take the ever popular ‘ignore the problem and hope it goes away’ approach, but after several months the shoulder continues to flare up from overhead pressing movements, especially those behind the plane of my upper body. While I’m no physician, I’m pretty sure that I’ve injured my rotator cuff, the infraspinatus in particular.

Technically, I should probably completely lay off the shoulder for the next few months. But I suspect I’ll end up simply taking it a bit easier in the weight room and continuing to work hard in the ring. In the world of kickboxing and no holds barred fighting, people frequently talk about the importance of ‘playing with pain.’ Which is to say, the importance of keeping going, even when you’re hurting; pushing yourself as hard as it takes to win.

You start to learn about yourself when you bump up against your limits; you determine whether you have the willpower to spur yourself on, even when every muscle in your body is tired, sore, begging you to stop. Because if you dicover that you can’t, you might as well hang up the gloves and take up macram

With May quickly turning to June, summer fruits have begun to arrive at the local supermarket: cherries, strawberries, plums and apricots. And, of course, the quintessential summer fruit, watermelon.

Indeed, this morning I was lucky enough to pick up my first watermelon of the season, a Crimson Sweet, marbled green and blockily round. In truth, I am a watermelon junky. And while I would normally write off my addiction on the grounds of nutrition (ounce for ounce, watermelon is one of nature’s most healthful fruits, stocked with vitamins [A, C, B6], minerals [thiamin, potassium, magnesium] and antioxidants [carotenoid, lycopene]), those benefits come best in moderation, and I must admit I’m more likely to finish an entire melon in one sitting than to stick with some measly FDA apportioned serving size. One perfect bite, juicy, crunchy, sugar sweet and vibrantly red, and I can’t stop.

Yoga is big in New York City. Really big. Advertisements for classes are everywhere, and I’ll frequently catch my friends and coworkers – even the ones I’d least suspect of being secret yoga acolytes – toting the tell-tale little mat. Frankly, I’ve been curious. Just last weekend, I had lunch with a college friend – previously one of the bitchier girls I knew – who had been doing yoga for several months and now had purged herself of negativity, would only say kind things about others. Whatever was happening in that yoga class must have been powerful stuff.

Still, I’ve been more than a bit skeptical of the yoga movement. After all, I’ve observed hundreds of classes from the corner of my eye while at the gym, and from what I could tell, yoga consists mainly of awkward, oddly-named stretching movements held while an overly flexible guru repeats the importance of ‘centering ones mind’ in the tone of voice normally found only in the extremely stoned or those suffering from affective disorders.

My father, a sports medicine physician and my erstwhile workout buddy, had apparently been curious as well. Since I’m staying with my parents here in Palo Alto, he decided to take advantage of my presence (sort of a ‘safety in numbers’ deal) to give yoga a test run. He had picked up a Living Arts yoga DVD (as their pilates DVD is one of the best), and last night we took a run through the beginning yoga workout. In short, it was mainly similar to the stretching routine I already do in preparation for kickboxing, the only differences being:

1. They aren’t ‘stretches,’ they’re ‘poses’ or ‘asanas.’

2. They’re not named ‘seated hamstring stretch’ or ‘standing hip flexor stretch’, they’re named ‘corpse pose,’ ‘downward dog pose’ and ‘warrior pose.’ (The final one evidencing why India had never become a world military power, as most other cultures would have seen more of a ‘guy who thinks he’s a warrior but is really just asking for a severe beating pose.’)

3. The routine concluded with a solemn statement of “namaste,” or (roughly translated from sanskrit) “I honor the place in you in which the entire universe dwells. I honor the place in you, which is of light and peace. When you are in that place in you and I am in that place in me, we are one.”

Apparently, I wasn’t in that place in me of light and peace where the entire universe dwells, because the instructor struck me as, basically, a moron. More than once, I also caught myself thinking: “You mean, if I do this for years, I’ll end up looking and acting like this guy? Looks like I’ve done just about enough yoga, thanks.”

It was definitely worthwhile though. Just one hour and my yoga curiosity is fully sated – you’ll never see me in the ‘powerful mountain pose’ again. Namaste.