Exercise? Me? Hah!

I hate exercise

Just to be clear, when I say exercise, I mean going to the gym or taking an aerobics class or doing regular repetitive weight routines and keeping track of sets and reps on my scorecard. Think barbells, mats, mirrors, exercise equipment, circuit stations, drippy sweat, sticky seats, empty water bottles, and humid locker rooms.

I hate that kind of exercise.

Oh, it’s not for lack of trying. Over the years I’ve been an active member of Bali Fitness, Club Genesis, Planet Fitness, and the YMCA.

I’d pack up my little duffle bag complete with combination padlock, water bottle, shower stuff, change of clothing and shoes, and ear buds and music source (that’s changed over the years from a cassette players, to CD players, to ipods, etc…), and then I’d drive myself to the exercise joint of the day to do my thing.

The thing was, I felt stupid and out-of-place and fat and unfit (even in my skinny, fit years), sub-standard, and extremely self-conscious in those places. Naturally, I never stuck with it for long.

When the gym didn’t work, I ran.

And I loved running.

To be sure, I dreaded the first mile every single time I went out to run, but once I got that behind me, I felt strong and free. I loved the solitude and the cadence of my feet hitting the pavement, the soothing rhythm of my arm swing and easy, regular breathing. Running made me feel soooooo glad to be alive.

I ran regularly for over 10 years. Then knees and asthma and time and wear-and-tear on my joints made running less joyous. Life got crazy, I started working full time in a sedentary job, gained the mid-life spread, and left running behind. I physically couldn’t do it anymore.

Fast forward fifteen or so years.

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My Heart’s Dance

My DSD Sarah and her sweet daughter (my DSGD, Grace) flew in from Minnesota last weekend to attend a loved one’s baby shower and to surprise the celebrated mom-to-be with their unexpected presence. It was, of course, a delightful surprise.

The added bonus was that I got to spend time with my girl and her girl for a few hours here and there between their social engagements and flight schedule.

Since four-year-old Grace was visiting, I refreshed the toy cupboard — a below-the-counter kitchen cabinet we reserve for age-appropriate toys, books, and treasures for the grand-kiddos to enjoy when they visit. They know where their cabinet is, and they enjoy rediscovering it everytime they come. 😀

B4TnMB6BTByjH9oFawaAJgOne of my recent additions to the kiddo cupboard is a children’s book called Giraffes Can’t Dance by Giles Andreae and Guy Parker-Rees.

It’s a delightful story, whimsically illlustrated, containing wisdom for children and grown-ups alike.

The gist of the story is this: Gerald the Giraffe, while good at reaching high places and devouring tree leaves, isn’t good at dancing, especially compared to other animals.  He wants to dance though, and decides to try dancing in public at the animals’ annual Jungle Dance where all the jungle animals display their own dance moves. Before he takes a step, however, the other animals make fun of Gerald, belittling him so much that he freezes on the dance floor.

Defeated, Gerald leaves the Jungle Dance feeling sad and alone. That is, until he stops to notice the beauty of the moon. Then a cricket chirps encouragement in Gerald’s ear: “…Sometimes when you’re different, you just need a different song….”

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My Finger Wag is Busted

boss-businessman-career-652352I don’t like being scolded.

Like most people, I feel uncomfortable, even threatened, when someone wags a finger in my face.

I certainly don’t like feeling stupid or defective or manipulated, which is exactly how I feel when a hyperconfident spinmeister tells me how to fix my presumably lacking life in five easy steps.

(Shall I tell you how I really feel?!) 😛

Oh my. Where did that rant come from?

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The Panini Generation

Screen Shot 2019-02-21 at 4.54.12 PMIf you think, because today’s title mentions Paninis (a distinctively Millennial thing), that this post is going to trash Millennials, you would be incorrect.

I love Millennials. I raised Millennials. I thoroughly enjoy Millennials. I believe Millennials are our future. But that’s a topic for another day. (I will get to that topic one day, trust me.)

I also happen to like Paninis.

But I digress.

Today’s post is about Baby Boomers, …ahem… my generation. I may have been born at the tail end of said generation, but I’m a Boomer nonetheless. A young-ish Boomer. One still considered a youngster by my elder peers. But they’re the old farts. Not me.

Again, I digress.

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Old Doesn’t Mean Obsolete

In the early 1900s, when most transportation was of the four-legged variety, the small city of Carbondale, Pennsylvania, boasted a lovely city drinking fountain in its town square that quenched the thirst of humans, horses, and canines alike.

The post card below depicts that fountain in its prime, before up-and-coming horseless carriages, those miracles of modern technology, made horse-watering fountains unnecessary in a town square.

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At its prime, the city of Carbondale’s town square fountain (early 1900s). People and horses found refreshment in the fountain’s upper bowl; dogs and other smaller animals drank from the lower bowl at the base of the pedestal.

 

Continue reading Old Doesn’t Mean Obsolete