After a week of suffering through a miserable cold that included a day off from work, a flight to Burbank California, and days of lying on my couch as my back muscles atrophied like I was on a six month stint on the ISS, I decided it was time to exercise! I’d hit the hill behind the office at lunch and work out the remainder of that sickness that’s been keeping me down! Sounds good in theory. Walk, walk, walk…pause. What’s that burning smell? Walk, walk, walk….oh god the hill. Climbing, burning, breathing hard, and more burning, only this time it’s my lungs. Hack! Spit…oh god mother, blood! Finally to the path. Let’s walk off this hurt. I wonder how many people in the office look out their windows and see me out there, face as pink as a new born, only with more veins popping, shake their heads and look away? No matter, this is my day to prove I’m not dead yet at forty. Well, physically I’m not dead, my soul…? So I’m running. Running. So far so good. I look down the hill to see a guy walking on the sidewalk. He’s pulling ahead of me! Wtf? I’ve run out of steam. It’s been 2 minutes!! My chest is pounding, my forehead is dripping sweat, my lungs feel like they’re processing jello. It makes me wonder how people can possibly enjoy cross-fit training.
I eventually make it to the backside of this evil hill. It’s not a hot day, but the UV rays seem to be doing the trick. I figure I’m out here to get in shape so I run some more! Well, no, my legs turn to spaghetti and I have to stop at what I’ve been calling The Failure Bench. It’s a little metal bench half-way up the steep part of this damn hill. I use it as a benchmark to see how well I’m doing. If I make it up the path without sitting down, I’m doing great! I reward myself with collapsing at the gazebo at the peak. Otherwise I just sit on the bench of shame, usually watching 60 year olds run buy smiling. On the plus side, I’m able to take nice panoramic shots of the city.
All is not lost. After the failure bench it’s the home stretch. I can head back to the office, have my lunch, and try not to pass out at my desk. I think of it as a challenge. Not sure I need my coworkers looking at me with concern, like they do. “That’s a good color on you.” I can only assume she’s talking about my shiny, beet red face as I’m pushing out years of toxins through my prodigious forehead. Can’t wait to do this again tomorrow!
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