Since my husband’s currently undergoing physical therapy for his second knee replacement in the past six months (the other leg this time, thank goodness!), twice a day he heads down to our dungeon-y basement to climb aboard the stationary bicycle he borrowed from his brother for just this “therapy” purpose. You should have seen the dust on that thing! Why, it was almost as thick as the dust on my treadmill, which, as you can see, is also in our dungeon.
Oh the places we'll go, oh the toning and strengthening we'll achieve, all in the basement during our bodies' workouts and our minds' rides to healthfulness. You see, we are the proud owners of a rowing machine AND a treadmill. Oh yes, we also have one of those jumpy things that looks like a round, miniature trampoline, so maybe we'll hop a few miles too. After all, healthy is good. Svelte is in. Exercise is not only popular, it's something we can do together.
But first we must peruse the possibilities. Master the maneuvers. Tame the technicalities. Back up the bravado. Delve into discipline. Stop the rhetoric and activate the garden slug that lurks in each of us. The options for success are staggering, and growing by the advertising minute.
After a recuperation period, we then decided the cheapest option, sans Official Walking Shoes, would be to start walking every evening and taking Wonderdog Butch with us. However, no sidewalks, no good weather and no cooperation from our disobedient, lunging and entangling mutt soon discouraged this budding idea. But our gymnastic minds kept flexing for new options.
Shortly thereafter my grandmother died and left me a small sum of money. "I know, George. I'll get us one of those rowing machines." And so I did. I rowed once and my sciatica screamed at me. George ceremoniously posted the printed routine that came with the machine and talked about his plan. Grandma's been gone four years now; that's about how long the rowing machine has had a broken roller.
With relentless pursuit, however, George and I scanned the video counters for just the right exercise program. Many caught his eye. Not because of promised benefits, but because of the "art work" on the boxes. Personally, I cannot understand why anyone would want to actually have Buns of Steel. Buns of steel? Can you imagine plopping down at your desk and hearing a sound reminiscent of The Gong Show? You'd probably shatter your teeth.
In the mean time, my stress level (partly induced by the guilt caused by all the exercise we're not getting) was calibrating at the high end of the scale. Since exercise is a known stress defuser, it was time to stop dinking around and just do it. Walking still seemed the least taxing on the body; treadmill talk began; shopping followed; the treadmill arrived. George said I could figure it all out and tell him how to use it. Seemed like a good idea to me.