I used to love to run to stay in shape. I ran high school track (like a turtle) and a little cross country (like a turtle in the woods). In college and after college my favorite running to do was at the MTSU stadium. I would run a lap around the track, and then run the stadium stairs, run the track, run the stairs, etc. That was my exercise. It gave me a skinny little body and frog legs. That was just the way I looked for a long time. Every now and then when I see a runner I will remember, “oh yeah, I used to be built just like that”. Now I am the opposite. I have the frog body and the skinny granddaddy long legs.
Tonight, as I decided I had to walk off some of my “ I refuse to get a to-go box” night, I went to walked around a track near my house. I walked about a mile and was talking on the phone the entire time (yes I am one of those people). Something about having to talk and walk at the same time really got me winded (and gave me a chance to show off my skill set). As I made my last lap in silence, except for the sound of my heavy breathing and the click, click, click of my pedometer, I realized that I was pooped. I got into my car after this cross-training event sweating like Heidi Fleiss in a confession booth and remembered something that I had told myself years ago.
It was a concept or a reality tag that I had put on myself for the future. I have done this many times for many things and for some reason I never forget them. Years ago, back when I was doing my track/stairs medley, I would see older adults walking around the track. I used to think that I wanted to go up to those people and say, “Seriously? Do you really think you are doing something? You are walking! That’s not exercise!” At some point in my runner years, I had told myself, “ I will know that I am officially old when I think that walking is exercise.”
Oh the ignorance/vanity of youth. I have fulfilled so many of my prophecies. Why do I do these things to myself? I have done it with many facets of life including (but not limited to) “I will officially know I am too fat when, too old when, a loser when,…” I have set all these lovely benchmarks for myself as if they were goals to obtain. So tonight, as I was riding home in the car with my feet feeling like twice stuffed potatoes from walking on hot asphalt for a mile, I remembered the “I am officially old” prophesy and decided that I was an idiot at the time I set all those benchmarks and that I was going to declare them all null and void. That was such a burden off of my slumped shoulders.
I came home and put my feet up. Oh my dogs were barking. I put on my fuzzy slippers, chugged a mixed drink (orange Metamucil and water) and turned on the TV. Old/schmold, that was crazy talk way back when. I am doing fine. I have a small mirror in my bathroom illuminated by a 40 watt light bulb that tells me so every morning.
In a few minutes will be the nightly bowl of ice cream with maybe an Ibuprofen chaser. What did I know way back then…please. As I am typing, I looked down at my hands and realized that they have turned into my dad’s hands. I remember once thinking that when I got to the point that my hands looked like my dad’s hands….oh yeah…erase…null and void…forgotten. I will say that sitting here my calves are starting to throb. I think I’ll get up early in the morning to beat the Walmart rush and get some of those socks that come all the way up to the knee. They are supposed to be for better circulation…I hear all the college kids and professional athletes are wearing them.
