7-Day Exercise Report
This past week has been more or less an exercise bust. An
outing with my daughters in New York on the weekend, an occasional snowstorm to
shovel, and the sporadic walking of the dog provided the bulk of my mileage.
The rest of my family takes turns taking Arliss out, and
they go often enough that he can do all of his doggie business. So, I find that
I need to coax him when I want to walk for fun, and he rarely cooperates. When
it is cold and windy, that mini-me couch potato rarely deigns to step off the front
porch, choosing instead to sniff the air, turn around, and beg to be let back
in the house. Not one to question the superior canine intuition, I follow him
in, and shortly we are once again ensconced in our respective favorite winter
hibernation spots, curled up and comfy despite the raging snowstorms which, if
not currently in our neighborhood, still could show up at any moment. We stay
in.
Ok, let's stop blaming Arliss. I am the one that needs to
exercise, and it is not my dog's responsibility to make sure I follow through.
I had fun shoveling snow this week. I had fun walking with
the puppy, the few times he accommodated my desire to take a spin around the
block and take in some fresh air. I had lots of fun walking around the city
with my daughters, though we spent most of the day sitting, in restaurants and at
the theater.
I did move a bit more this week than last. I did laundry and
light housework. I went to the library, visited family, started to clean out a
closet.
However, I mostly sat.
I made excuses. I wrote about exercise. I wrote about
everything else under the sun. In one afternoon I read a whole book of poetry,
on the subject of the dead and the undead, written by various famous authors,
none of whom mentioned lack of exercise as the cause of the demise of their
deceased. Some of the poets' subjects died of heartache, of loneliness. Emily
Dickinson said she would not stop living to accommodate Death's need for her
company, so Death had to stop what he was doing to come to her.
I see Dickinson's shadow when I look in my mirror—she's sitting
in her parlor, writing poetry, thinking about how sitting around and writing
poetry and otherwise not getting out much might possibly lead to an early grave.
In short, I spent the majority of my time this week engaged
in a great deal of physical inactivity.
Why, you might ask?
To this, I say, "Don't judge me."
"Walk a mile in my moccasins."
"Stress. The other red meat." (Trying to be funny,
here. Get it? "Pork. The other white meat." Red meat will kill you.
Ha ha. Ha... Oh, forget it. Humor does not translate well in this venue.)
What could be so hard about exercising, that I have failed
to meet my goal for this week?
You don't even know.
But for all of you who spent the same amount of time as I
did, or more, passively captured in a state of inactivity, I want you to know
that you are not alone in your struggles when you find it difficult to get motivated
to get moving.
Hats off to you, for reading about motivation to exercise!
And, here's a toast, "To next week!"
It may look like next week promises to be more of the same,
but next week is going to be in for a bit of a surprise. We are going to kick
next week's butt, and make it answer the clarion call "To
Exercise!"