Ever since being forced to run the mile from first through ninth grades, I’ve been a little iffy about the whole “exercise” thing. Sure it’s good for you and makes you clothes fit better, but couch lounging is good for the soul and there are sweatpants for any size.
Maybe if I hadn’t been embarrassed into running I’d find it a much more enjoyable time. Plus, now podcasts are a thing.
In front of my bomb-shelter looking school, the PE teacher put out a series of cones, and, like we were being punished, had to weave in and out of trees until a mile had been met. Adults regularly drove by, pointing and laughing, while my classmates and I were timed and marked by performance level. A less unenjoyable past time, presidential testing, also took place. Here we performed tasks that will never come up again in life (like algebra), and tried to break the records kids before us had set in semi-permanent stone. Sit-and-reach and eraser grab were among favorites.
In seventh grade I, along with another girl, broke the record for pull-ups by one whole rep; we each completed 14.
To date, that’s my athletic-est of accomplishments.
The Clock is my Oyster
The thing about living in a township is that people are always trying to get involved with one another. We have town potlucks, we stare out our windows to see what’s the ruckus, and in the case of the elderly population (and me), we have workout groups. For 30 minutes every week we gather to stretch, cardio, and cheek-pinch our way to better health.
This class is open to all, but apparently, the only people with open enough schedules are myself and nine others over the age of 75. And it’s glorious. Where else am I going to hear grandmas joke about heart attacks and broken hips? Where else will old men insist that I’m too young to know how to cook? You say cliché, I say best entertainment of the day.
Besides, their frail bones put the workout level just within my lazy reach. Never did I know just how much aerobics could be done from a chair, and with soothing music in the background; see ya, dub step.
Maybe next week I’ll bring up my pull-up record; that beats Mildred’s diving tale for sure.