Everything I read about
folks who are prone to heart problems keeps harping on and on and on about
exercise. Well, there’s nothing to exercising. Just hop out there and walk a
couple of miles and it’s done. I hopped out there. I nearly died walking a
couple of miles. Surely there was something a little more tailored to my fat
cells.
I moaned and groaned. I said
unkind words about the gene pool I’ve been swimming in since birth. My daughter
finally got tired of the tirade and gave me her fitness machine. It’s supposed
to give a person a total cardio-vascular workout with low impact. My fat cells
liked the idea of low impact. They thought it meant something easy.
The little machine didn’t
look so formidable. Somewhat like a bicycle with a big handle bar. Couldn’t be
all that difficult to master.
The machine sat there for
several days before I realized that I had to use it before it would help me.
I’d hoped that just owning it and having it out for all the world to see might
be enough. But it wasn’t.
I got on it for a trial run,
grabbed the front bars, put my feet on the pedals and pushed and pulled just
like I was supposed to. Well, that was easy enough. Actually there was nothing
to it. I could easily fall in instant love with low impact exercising if that’s
all there was to it. I could exercise right beside the air conditioner vent
once a day and my heart would last forever.
On Monday morning ... all
programs having to do with diet or exericing must begin on Monday morning or
they never work ... I put on some good music and began my twenty minutes of
cardio-vascular low impact working out. After two minutes my heart was beating
fast enough to tell me that I sure didn’t want to attempt anything with a high
impact. At the three minute mark my shins began to complain. The old heart and
shin bones could fuss until they put up a snow cone stand in Hades. I was
determined to stay with it.
At six minutes all the
moisture had been low-impacted out of my body. My mouth felt like it had been
swabbed out with cotton. If I would have had to spit to get into the Pearly
Gates I would have been in big trouble. At ten minutes I decided half a workout
of low impact was good enough to start with. I drank a gallon of water before I
was able to answer Husband’s questions about the machinery.
“It’s a piece of cake,” I
said. “Low impact. Nothing to it. You try it.”
Evidently he didn’t believe
me. He hasn’t grabbed those bars like a long lost brother and started to give
his heart a total cardio work out yet.
Through the weeks I’ve
discovered just how much I hate that machine, sitting there in all it’s
self-righteous, mocking glory. I’m up to twenty minutes but my knees still feel
like jelly when I’m finished. I’ve found out, too, that I have to exercise
early in the morning or my brain will figure out what I’m doing and find a
dozen other more pleasant things to do. Like cleaning the toilet or washing
down woodwork or going to the dentist.
I read an article last week
about exercising. It stated that for every mile you run, or twenty minutes that
you do a low-impact cardiovascular glider you add one minute to your life. Not
much compensation for worrying about whether or not I’ll have enough spit in my
mouth to answer the questions to get me through the Pearly Gates or not. But
then when I added up the minutes, it was kind of impressive how many years I
could extend my life by just twenty minutes of fighting with the machine every
day.
By faithful exercise I could
live to be 100 years old. That means that I can spend an additional five to six
years in a nursing home at the rate of $5000 dollars per month. Yep, they can
haul my low impact machine to the nursing home and set it up in my room. By
then I will have a close friendship with the thing. I may not know my children
or my grandchildren but I’ll demand twenty minutes on my machine every day.
When I die they can bury me with a water bottle ... just in case.
ROFLOL, Can that count as excise? I still have to get off the floor, that should count as something!
ReplyDeleteHmm, that's an interesting theory. If my brain tells me to clean instead of exercise, I have no problem letting it have its way. The way I figure, scrubbing walls or getting on my hands and knees to do the floors can give plenty of that cardio stuff and get something done in the process. You can make friends with that bike thingy of yours, for as long as I am able, I'll keep rolling out dough for my exercise.
ReplyDelete