This is from quite some back from a different area code than my present one, physically and emotionally. For reasons that had a lot more to do with the mechanics of the treadmill in the fitness center than any form of iron discipline and control I might be pretending to have, for most of my session yesterday, as measured by the two cross handles that keep me from being dragged off the device, my heart rate was a steady 123.
I cracked myself up all the while struggling on the treadmill when I realized that and then sort of made a game out of how steady I could keep going so that the heartbeat number never wavered. Of course, I've read the disclaimers on the label (understanding is another matter entirely) and appreciate the display doesn't purport to be accurate but what does the manufacturer know? How did we all decide what an "A" sounds like or how to write in "Q" in cursive. And what smell does the number nine actually have? (I still think backward it says 'cranberry sauce') The line between real and surreal often is narrow and when you add cereal, it's part of a good breakfast.
I've returned to the fitness center after the roto-rooter surgery (my doctor's term) on the artery in my right leg and with his knowledge and agreement. He stipulated I NOT lift anything heavy (like our National Debt or Crisis of Conscience) and to call him immediately if while treadmilling (treading? milling?) it starts to hurt.
That makes me giggle, too, since I'm usually at the fitness center around four in the morning (do not ask what time the bars close) and can only imagine what an otherwise very polite and mild-mannered person becomes when awakened in the dark of night by a Wisenheimer (from the Von Wisenheimer Family of Upper Ober-Knerdelheim).
With my luck, should there need to be a 'next time' he'll be the one with the scalpel and I'm just now remembering how painful the location of the incision was and how with very little additional provocation on my part how much MORE painful it could be next time.
Like taking candy, from a baby.
-bill kenny
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