Back in town, wake at 7, jump into sweats and tennies, then curl up on Mom’s couch to snooze until husband’s call,…ready whenever… won’t disappoint the big guy…but intent on preserving the hypnosis of just waking…the drugged effect…
A newspaper profile a week ago, following the death at 96 of Jack LaLanne, the exercise wild man on black and white TV during my childhood, quoted him saying, “I never enjoyed working out; in fact, I hated it, but I liked the results.” Good. No need to be yippy-skippy. (yawn)
Finally the cell phone rattles, the farm truck idles at the end of the sidewalk, and I stumble out into the cold, slipping dangerously on black ice, which little drama husband misses, gazing at the snow plow clearing the school parking lot a block away. So much for grogginess…
Looks like we share the gym with others today: a woman working the elliptical like it’s a tricycle, and two muscle men, heavily tattooed, pumping iron on a series of weight machines. All three smile, … pitying the Tweedles, as we struggle to keep up with the lowest speed on the treadmills. I try to show off by walking hands-free … and nearly fly off one side.
The gasping Tweedles manage to stretch out our “treading” at least until the others have cleared the premises, but the second the door closes, I turn off my treadmill, knowing husband will need to prove he lasted longer than I did, and I’ve noticed him clearly struggling.
We clock out after 30 minutes, that feels like 30 weeks.
Does laughing count as exercise? If so, thank you for my dose of exercise for today.... :)
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