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Passing Thoughts
T.W. Winslow
Slower Than a Three-legged Poodle
It's a little after five o'clock in the morning. The coffee's made and I've
already scanned today's headlines. I've managed to make just enough noise to
remind everyone else in the house that I'm up early and they should feel just
a little bit guilty for turning over and going back to sleep. The sun begins
to rise over the distant mountains as I pull on my running shoes. I call
them running shoes, but really they're the same ratty sneakers I've been
wearing around the house for the past couple of years.
It may be the beginning of spring, but the temperature this time of day is
hovering around thirty degrees, so I slip on a jacket and gloves. Oh, and
best not forget my black stocking cap - the one my neighbor said makes me
look like a burglar (which reminds me I need to cross her off our Christmas
party list). I quickly stretch, then grab my two eight-pound hand weights
and run out the door.
This insanity started a few weeks ago when I decided (with a little constant
nagging by my wife), at my age I need to start going into the doctor for an
annual physical. I don't know about you, but doctors' offices make me
uneasy. It's like taking your car in for a simple oil change, only to come
back to find a repair bill amounting to several hundred dollars. The car was
running just fine before going into the shop . . .
Reluctantly, I went in for a checkup, filled out the pile of forms, and
waited half-naked for the doctor in a small, chilly closet they call an exam
room. The doctor finally rushed in and began his interrogation, all the
while poking and prodding me in ways that would be against the Geneva
Convention if we were at war. I don't mean to be too critical, but a
doctor's bedside manner shouldn't include crinkling up his nose, shaking his
head and saying, "tisk, tisk, tisk," as he makes notes in your chart. I know
I'm not the picture of health, but come on!
The final outcome wasn't too terrible, and most of what the doctor had to say
came as no surprise; eat better, stop smoking and get some exercise. Much
as I hated to admit it, my lifestyle could use some work. So with the help
of modern pharmacology, I'm taking the doctor's advice and quitting smoking
for good. And, what better way to make the torture of nicotine withdrawal
even more unpleasant than the aching muscles and sore feet that come with
taking on a new exercise program.
So here I am, huffing and puffing down the street, fantasizing about lying in
bed eating an entire bag of potato chips and chain smoking. Most of the
houses I pass are still dark and the neighborhood is strangely quiet.
Occasionally someone will pass me by. Most are men in work trucks making
their way to their jobs. I can't help but wonder what these guys think as
they watch me cough and choke my way down the road. I have a feeling
whatever they are thinking includes such words as wimp, wuss, and weasel.
After reaching half way, I turn and head for home. It's much lighter out now
and the neighborhood is beginning to stir with activity. Passing people on
the street as they retrieve their morning papers, I'm painfully aware of what
a spectacle I must be - my awkward long strides being thrown off balance by
the hand weights I'm carrying. Dressed in my shabby outfit and black
stocking cap, struggling with each step, I must look like some kind of
wounded burglar fleeing the authorities.
I can see my house in the distance. My legs feel like they weigh a hundred
pounds each, and I'm certain my arms fell off about three blocks back. It's
all I can do to make it the last hundred yards. My once quick pace has
slowed considerably - to the point that even the neighbor's blind,
three-legged Poodle could catch me now. When I reach my driveway I collapse
in a heap on the curb (good thing it's not trash day). My head is spinning,
my lungs are burning and I know it's sick but I'd kill for a cigarette. I
only wish my doctor would drive by so I could roll my aching body in front of
the wheels of his Mercedes.
I'm sure in time I'll get used to this daily torture, and I know in the long
run my health will benefit from it. But right now, that thought doesn't make
my feet hurt any less or sooth my burning muscles. There is one thing that
does make me feel a bit better. It's the thought of adding one more thing to
my daily ritual. I think I'll start phoning my doctor at five o'clock each
morning just to thank him for helping me to improve my health. That'll teach
him.
About the Author:
Passing Thoughts is a syndicated column published on quality web sites, in
electronic magazines and various print media around the world - read by
millions each week. You can get Passing Thoughts FREE each week by email -
subscribe at http://www.taddgroup.com For reprint information or to contact
the author write to twwinslow@... |
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