Working in a Workout

Before I retired, I was on a tight schedule; at 5 am the clock radio would suddenly start blaring country music. I would make ten or fifteen vain attempts to rise and each time fall back. I had just completed my first set of crunches. About that time a hand would slip out from under the covers and switch on a blinding light to tell me I really did have to get up. Then, in a sitting position on the side of the bed, I rose and sat down 20 times in succession—shallow knee bends to preserve my manly tush.

When I got into the bathroom, I started hot water running into the tub and began brushing my teeth. As I brushed my teeth, I did a hundred toe rises. I could feel the burn in my foot arches and my thighs, but especially in my calves. Once soaking in the tub, I managed to get in my second set of stomach crunches. Getting out and drying off, I held the towel behind my head and pulled strongly to either side, using it as an exercise band.

Next came the part I disliked. When I was half-dressed, I’d close my eyes, take a few deep breaths and channel my Army basic training drill instructor yelling, “Drop and give me twenty!” As I did the push-ups, I listened to my body; if it said “your good”, I’d go for another ten. Otherwise, I’d shut it down and save cardiac arrest for another morning.

After reading the scale (“ Oh, sh.. !”), I’d face the mirror, make two fists behind my neck and isometrically pull them slowly forward half a dozen times until I could really feel my biceps burn. Once I’d finished a quick shave, I looked in the mirror and did my best Charles Atlas pose, rippling my pecs and abs for a few seconds. I had managed to work a fairly strenuous calisthenics into my 15-minute morning routine.

As I gazed in the mirror, I could not help but utter, “Why couldn’t I have been born rich… instead of so darn good looking!”
From the kitchen came a muffled muttering, “Why couldn’t he have been either one?”
A couple coffee slurping sounds and then, “It takes a village to raise a husband.”
Guess it was time to turn the bathroom over to Grumpus and let her transform into the beautiful butterfly I knew she was.

Picking Up Sticks, Channeling Mom

Retirees need physical exercise. While they were in the labor force, if they had strenuous jobs, they could ignore the gyms and weight rooms and still stay in shape from work alone. Now if I don’t work out, I will quickly turn into jelly and become an old man. What to do? Should I get on the exercise bike or lift my dumbbell? BORING! How about a 3-mile walk or long bike ride? Still sounds like work to me. What if I did a morning of yard work? My spouse would certainly approve of any improvements, I’d be out in the sunlight and fresh air, and my sour winter mood and self-esteem might rally as I viewed my accomplishments. Yes, yard work seems the way to go.

The leaves are all down and in my compost piles now, clearly showing the structure that needs to be pruned and cleared in the fence rows and woods. What needs to be done reveals itself to me, one step at a time. There is some variety with each new task and I work at a steady but unrushed pace…an entire morning of moderate exercise versus the thirty minutes of more intense stationary bike or weight lifting. The whole time I am outdoors, the house thermostat is cranked back very low and our sun porch is gaining warmth to heat the house this afternoon. As I pick up dead branches and drag limbs to the fire pit where I know there will be a bonfire later, nature works its trick and my winter funk lifts. I don’t use any power tools as the noise would disturb the quietude.

When we were growing up, Mom always wanted a farmhouse on a hill with a woods and a spring and flowers. In her golden years, that is precisely what she got, right on the edge of the suburbs. During the last 20 years of her life, Mom stayed in shape walking up and down that hill past the spring house picking up sticks and carrying them handful by handful to the fire pit where they would remain until the family had our annual soup-making cookout. Dad would get winded if he walked up that hill one time, but not Mom; she had stamina.

I’ve only visited Mom and Dad’s mausoleum one time since they died…I didn’t feel any real connection. There are pictures of them on our living room wall which I stop in front of only maybe once a week…not as much connection as there should be. But when I walk up and down this rise in my woods and pick up twigs… I channel Mom all morning long.