Get Up and Go!

"How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get up and go has got up and went
But in spite of it all, I’m able to grin
And think of the places my get up has been"*

In the last few months, I’ve nobly tried to take up some form of exercising, so that I don’t wake up one day and find myself shopping for Jabba the Hut sized clothes. I have no desire to walk up to the Ohio Tent and Awning Company and ask if they have a fitting room. I have my pride. The problem is that I hate exercising just for the sake of exercising. It seems, well, pointless. I applaud team sports and all the camaraderie and esprit de corps that go with them. Just exercising? Too boring. When I was in college, it wasn’t a problem, there were a variety of intramural sports, and I played them all. There were also racquetball courts just a stones throw away FOR FREE. Now, if I wanted to play racquetball, I’d have to join some exclusive gym, pay hundreds of dollars in membership fees, AND buy a stunning new athletic outfit, because you know “fitness club” members don’t wear sweat pants from Kohl’s.

I hate to be judged for my fashion, so I tried walking. The problem with walking is that there’s really no way to walk without people watching you. (When they invent the Exercise Inviso-Cloak, I’m there.) I don’t want people to watch me when I’m exercising. Eewww! I’ve tried walking at night, but I find myself drawn to look in people’s open windows when I walk by. Too many distractions, and I have no desire to be arrested. There’s also a myriad of excuses: too late, too hot, too cold, too rainy, and too lazy. And then there was the lady hit by a cheeseburger while walking. (The cheeseburger was not driving the car, but rather flung out of it. Less dangerous, but no less startling.) I can’t take those kinds of chances; I need a safer exercise, perhaps watching television.

Being a proud user of digital cable, and the thousands of channels now afforded to me, I recently found the “fitness” channel. I can now watch all sorts of aerobics and stretches at any hour. Should I wake up in the middle of the night with a nightmare involving spare tires or love handles, I can simply flip on the TV and tune into “Magic Abs”, or “Buns of Steel”. Of course, WATCHING the show doesn’t burn as many calories as say, DOING the exercises, but with my metabolism, I don’t really burn calories anyway, I merely singe them. It seemed rather lazy, so naturally, I asked my partner to do the exercises with me so that I wouldn’t look like an idiot flailing about the television. We began watching “Afro-Brazilian Dance Aerobics”. It seemed quite easy at first. I was confident that we had picked a winner. The teacher was calm, and slow, and explained all the moves necessary so that we could easily keep up. I was thrilled! Then the announcer mentions that we’re now ready to begin the warm-up. What? What have I been doing? Ohmigod, you mean there’s more to it? I briefly hesitated as the exercising became more intense. By minute seven, I was sure that I was not given joints in places the people in the video had. How can you move your body like that? The svelte dancers in the video clearly had no hipbones or spines, and clearly no Caucasian dancing inhibition genes. By the time the Caribbean-Twist-Squats came up I was panting like an aged hound dog after the hunt. When the Swan-Swimming-Swirls came on I had to stop and try to figure out what limbs they were moving with what muscles. My partner, however, danced on... until she heard the laughing. When I stopped out of confusion, I watched her to try to understand the moves. She was whirling around the room moving her head like a swooning chicken having a seizure. I tried to prevent a giggle from escaping, but that just made it worse. I couldn’t stop laughing. (No doubt the effect of a lack of oxygen to the brain.) See, another reason to hate exercising: bad for relationships. Good thing I had one exercise left to try.

We wheeled the bikes out the garage. They looked the same as they did 20 years ago when I rode 10-12 miles a day without effort. They say you never forget how to ride a bike. That part is true. I remembered the mechanics. I put my foot on the pedal, and pushed off. I had gotten about 2 rotations of the pedals when a searing pain began in my right calf. Not to be left out, my left calf began cramping. Because of the design of the ten-speed, I was crouched over, and my back began to spasm, and along with the less-than-comfortable design of the “speed seat”, my haunches hurt. As every muscle in my body began to seize, I debated my decision to ride the open road. I yelled at my partner to stop, and I leaned forward and applied the brakes, only to pinch my pinky finger in the braking mechanisms. I began to slow down and screamed, “Aren’t we done yet?” as my eyes began to tear up.

“We haven’t even left the driveway,” she replied.

Well, add bike riding to the ever-growing list of exercises to take up, and then rigorously avoid. Maybe swimming. What’s the worst thing that could happen there?



*Pete Seeger