The Case Against Moderation

There's a 94 year old man who lives in the same apartment complex as my parents.  His hands are knarled with tree-trunk veins and goosebumpy, yellowed fingernails.  I suspect he can't see much through coke-bottle glasses, but he still, fascinatingly, has all his coarse brown-grey hair.  Every morning he takes the elevator down from his apartment to the small gym in the lobby of my parent's building, ensconsed in a wheelchair bearing an orange flag, the kind you'd see on the back of a child's bicycle. I've seen him there almost every time I visit my parents: rowing, achingly slow.  Lifting ten pound weights up up over his ... [More]