My mother’s telling everyone she can about my pitiful state of physical health, because alas, it became overly clear to her a couple weeks ago that I, a spiffy 25 year old in the ‘prime’ of life, am more out of shape than she - a fifty-some year old with the ‘excess baggage’ that comes with having two children, an ice cream and candy obsession, bursitis, and very likely fibromyalgia. Yes, you heard me right.

This sorry truth came to light when we were out gardening in my garden. I’ve never planted cucumbers in hills before, so she snatched up the hoe and proceeded to show me how she’d always done - scraping a circle about 3 feet big, and then… hoeing up all the dirt into a mound about 7-8 inches tall. Inspired by the ease, I did the next one.

Sort of.

I got halfway through my circle and was ready to pass out cold in the ant-ridden dirt, heaving for air, my lazy and far underworked muscles quivering and begging for relief. She took one look at me and about peed her pants laughing. Thank you mother, I knew I could count on you for support.

I finished, but it took me several minutes longer, and the result was almost as pathetic as my attempt, looking more like a pile of dirt than a nicely formed hill for my cukes. She straightened it up for me. Because clearly, I was an incompetent imbecile when it came to any sort of physical challenge.

This is not exactly a new condition (who won last on place in every single “track and field day” event I was forced to attend (sobbing and protesting the whole way) as a child in elementary school? that’s right, good ol’ me! who was the very last person to finish two measly laps in gym class all through high school? yep! who could not advance past intermediate swimming lessons because I simply was not fast enough? yeehaw!), but suffice to say, I’ve never been this out of shape. Even a six year old could do better than that, I’m sorry to report. Hell, my cats can do better than that.

(Maybe not. They don’t even bother to attempt the whole ‘dig’ thing in the litterbox anymore. Wtf is up with that, anyway?)

That said, A found out through Mom (and me, because I figured I may as well tell the tale myself once she’d started), and tried to rope me into walking with her. Let me say this: I. Hate. Walking. Always have, always will. Something about it just seems pointless to me. Pointless. Boring. Numbing. Feet-hurting. Knee-hurting. Forever-taking. I hate it. I walk two and a half blocks to work every day, and I hate every step of it. I should walk three and a half blocks to the post office every day to get my mail, but I don’t. I drive. Just to avoid the dreaded walk.

Why do I hate it so? No idea, but I suspect genetics and upbringing has something to do with it. After all, my mother drove one block to work for several years. One block. I’ve never seen my father walk anywhere he couldn’t drive. We lived 5 blocks from school (maybe six?) and I recall riding my bike there twice. Every other time, I either got a ride, or drove myself. Genetics and upbringing, I tell you. And I have a hard time overcoming that.

Anyway, A then complained that I turned down bike riding, which is easier. All right, I give. It’s easier… if you’re in any shape at all, and if at least half your ass fits on the seat. When it gets down to like, a quarter of your ass, it’s more like sitting on an apple, and believe me, that’s even less comfy than walking. I used my stationary bike for a few days. Then I quit on that shit. I mean, when your inner asscheeks hurt from the strain several days later… it’s time to find a new exercise. Seriously.

I’ve lost two pounds in the last couple weeks. Some of it was ‘that time of the month’ weight, I think, or maybe not… but some of it was from my gardening activities. If I keep it up all this summer, maybe I’ll actually develop, like, a muscle somewhere! Wouldn’t that be neat?

No Comments »

No comments yet.

Leave a comment