This week I started a weight loss clinic at my doctor’s office. Because I dearly love the staff, I am not going to make snarky comments about skinny people trying to empathize with fat people. After all, why alienate the few who don’t leave a flaming pile of blame at your door, ring the bell, and hide in the bushes?
So now I’m following the groundbreaking program of “Eat less, Exercise more.”
I like to walk in the mornings, but it’s been a bit nippy here in Colorado. So the other day I went to the indoor track at the Y. This turned out to be more than a little humbling. I followed a trim sixty-five-year-old up the stairs to the elevated track. Grandma then left me in the dust with only a glimpse of her toned fanny.
The only other woman my age was jogging—and clearly had developed the habit throughout all her adult years.
I stuck to the inside track, the slow track, the arthritic track, the recovering from heart surgery track—you get the idea. I got excited when I caught up to one of the seniors. I knew the protocol for passing. After all, Mrs. Career Jogger had lapped me plenty of times.
I sped up and moved to the right—the fast track!—to pass the gray-haired trotter in front of me. But he must have sped up too. Ah, he’s like one of those drivers who won’t go the sped limit but won’t let you pass. I sped up a little more. The old geezer stepped on the gas!
So I’m huffing and puffing in the fast lane, eyeing Grandpa at my left, with Jogger Lady bearing down on me. Who knew you could have road rage on a walking track? Like any respectable, aggressive driver, I responded to the situation by cranking my music up. This backfired as I was wearing headphones and simply blasted my own eardrums with Matchbox 20.
Finally, I managed to pass Gramps, and swerve back into the slow lane in time for Speedy to zoom by. But by then, I was too tired to keep up the pace. My victory was short-lived. Seventy-year-old Recovering Heart Patient passed me with a gleam in his eye.
All in all, it turned out to be a good workout. I plan to go back for a rematch this week. And this time, the gloves are off. I’m bringing a bike horn.
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