Anyone who’s followed this blog for any length of time knows how I feel about exercise, so you’d think MSB would know too. We went for a walk the other day, me trying desperately to keep up with his stride.
“You’re going too fast.”
“This pace is better exercise.”
“If this is exercise, I’m going home. I’m out for a stroll. I don’t exercise.”
He slowed down.
Soon we reached the stop sign about a half-mile from our house. Usually, especially when I’ve had a surgery sometime during the year (like this year), this is as far as I can go. That day, I wanted to go as far as the bridge to the left, but MSB wanted to take the hill to the right.
“It’s better exercise.”
“I’m not exercising, I’m out for a stroll.”
We went left.
I tried to explain that I’ve never liked exercise, that I’ll play anything he wants–baseball, basketball, tennis–but I won’t exercise. I’ll stroll, but not power walk.
After awhile, we still hadn’t reached the bridge and I was huffing like the weak ball of flab that I am.
“If we’d gone right, we’d be on our way home by now,” he said.
“But I want to see the bridge.”
“You’re not going to make it to the bridge.”
“It’s just up the road a bit.”
So, after a bit, we still hadn’t reached the bridge, and my legs were protesting to my brain, This is too much like exercise. But I wasn’t going to say anything because after all, we could’ve been home by now.
“All you’re going to see at the bridge is a dry creek bed.”
“I know, but I’ve never seen it dry before, so I want to go.”
Funny how stubbornness can override screaming muscles.
Finally we made it to the bridge. It’s a beautiful, old wooden bridge, deep in the woods, suspended over a dry creek bed–and a heckuva lot farther from my house than I thought. I ooohed and aaaahed over absolutely everything to both buy time before I had to walk back on cramping calves and creaking knees, and to validate walking all that way for what apparently was no reason whatsoever.
“You ready to head back?”
“Yes,” I lied. What I meant was, I’ll just sit here and wait while you go get the truck and come back for me. I’ll be fine. Really.
The trek back was slow and painful, with me stopping periodically to catch my brea—enjoy the fall flowers.
“You know, if we carried weights, we can get twice as much exercise in half as much time.”
“I don’t exercise.” By this point, I didn’t stroll either. I was convinced the best exercise I would ever get was pounding the puter keys or poking the TV remote. I’d have the world’s strongest fingers.
Home never looked so good, but there was still the slight incline up to the house. Could I make it? Could I move muscles that were sending orders to my brain to just die? Just die right now on this stupid gravel drive. Just die!
Guess I made it–I’m here, sitting at the puter, exercising my . . . uh, strolling my fingers across the keyboard.