There’s nothing like kitchen-table guilt. From my kitchen table, I can look out on the path along the creek and see my ambitious neighbors wearing themselves out each morning. There they go, jouncing their flab along in sweatsuits and sneakers, huffing and coughing and turning red while I have a second cup of coffee.
I know. I know. I should do that. I guess I probably will, too. I’ve been thinking of getting one of those little radios with the ear thingies to listen to, anyway. Everyone knows that hound of mine needs her exercise, as I don’t set her loose down along the river on a night coon hunt as often as I should. I might even look good in a sweatsuit.
There’s a certain amount of pride a guy can take in exercise, of course. You get out in the cold morning air and suffer along in your quest to postpone The Big One as long as possible. Lots of Brownie points with the neighbors, of course, to be thought of as a with-it, “now” kinda guy. The ones who moved here from the city will begin to smile and wave more often.
The only problem with this exercise stuff is how tiring it can be. But I think I have this figured out. Yes… a plan.
I believe I’ll listen to the classical station on that little radio. I think something slow by Ravel or Brahms would be just right for setting my pace. And I’ll be sure to walk slowly past the neighbors’ houses. You know, encourage the pity factor.
“He’s been exercising so hard he’s exhausted,” they’ll say, watching me trudge back toward the warmth of my home.
Eventually, they’ll wonder why my dog hasn’t lost any weight, of course, but then, no plan is perfect.
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