I
am trying to write for at least an hour every day. Some days all I can manage is a grocery list
but like Stephen King said, “Sometimes
you have to go on when you don't feel like it, and sometimes you're doing good
work when it feels like all you're managing is to shovel shit from a sitting
position.” Believe me, most days I feel like I am following around
an elephant. Again, I digress. I am writing with the encouragement of my
quirky cousins to write then ship-it. (stops and waves to quirky cousins) So I
am putting a stamp on this and shipping it.
Gladys
climbed on the stationary bike cussing and huffing. It was her third day at the Cardiac Rehab
center. She was feeling a little out of
place, as she had not had a heart attack like the rest of these poor people,
instead she had a rheumatic heart from childhood illness. Her cardiologist wanted to get a baseline on
her before she went off and killed herself exercising on her own. Now if you have never been to a cardio rehab
class let me give you a brief description of the events. First thing you do when you get there is get
your blood pressure, heart rate and blood oxygen levels. This is done by waiting in line behind about
fifty octogenarians and a dozen nonagenarians who all give you the stink eye
wondering what your quinquagenarian self is doing here. It is not like Gladys
is a spring chick but still those oldsters are just a little suspicious of
those young whippersnapper baby boomers. Once you have your vitals you head
over to stick electrodes all over your body with super glue stuck to toilet paper.
Finally,
you climb aboard one of the instruments of torture, otherwise known as the
recumbent bicycle on which you are tortured for a minimum of fifteen minutes of
pure agony. Then you drag your limp
and tired legs over to the next instrument of torture also known as the
treadmill. Once you have completed the
Bataan death march they usher you to a machine on which you peddle up hills
both ways with your hands. Yes, it is a
hand peddler. Yes, I know, you are
saying. What the heck Gladys? None of this is that bad. But Gladys abhorred exercise.
The
nice nurse came to her machine and dialed up a level three. Let’s test your stamina she said. This will be easy, she lied. Gladys began to peddle and the more she
peddled the harder it became. The harder
it became the harder she panted and puffed.
Her face turned beat red. He
hands gripped the handles as if they would save her from falling into the
bowels of hell. She began to sweat and
her legs began to burn. The faster she
peddled the inertia caused her to slide down the seat causing her to have to
pull herself off the floor and back up on the seat.
It
was during one of these adjustments she noticed that someone had taken the seat
next to her. Not just anyone, but a
small little elvish woman in a baby pink track suit with a shocking head of
white hair. She was the Betty White of cardio. Gladys gulped air and huffed out a
hello. The little woman smiled and
returned the greeting in a sweet soft voice, not at all inconvenienced by the
weapon of mass destruction she was peddling.
By this time Gladys was convinced
she is going to die right there with her feet in the stirrups. She looked hopefully over at the nonagrian
next to her for some commiseration only to find old Betty White wanna-be knitting. The woman is KNITTING while
working out. WHAT KIND OF VOODOO IS
THIS? She’s a witch! Burn her! Burn her! Gladys was sure this woman was not working at
the same level as she. She was probably
on a level one, barely peddling so holding on tight to the handles she leaned
as far over as she could without being thrown like a city slicker on a
mechanical bull. She stretched and squinted
only to see that old Betty was three levels higher than she was at and was on a
much harder program. One that made her
climb hills at a high incline. Humph,
Gladys thought. She isn’t human, that
has to be the explanation.
Finally,
her time on the recumbent torture machine was over and she drug her limp and
lifeless body over to the treadmill where once again the not so nice lying nurse
set the machine to the lowest level allowed.
The tread began to roll and Gladys stumbled and caught herself with the
bar, caught up to the cadence and began her huffing and puffing. Just a moment or two later good old knitting
Betty hopped up on the treadmill next to Gladys. She smiled and set her machine once again to
random hills at a high speed. Then she
did the unthinkable. She reached down
and grabbed her knitting and began to knit.
She began to knit while climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. What in the love of GOD is this woman
drinking? Gladys gulped down some air
and huffed and puffed praying to all things holy for the torture to end. Betty White just knitted and smiled. The clouds parted, the light came on and
finally Gladys’ fifteen minutes were finally over. She mustered up as much of a smile as
possible, drank a half a bottle of water in one swallow and begged to go home.
The
nurse lied again and told her just one more little machine. No big deal.
Just peddle with your hands. You
will feel wonderful she lied, the time will fly by she said. LIES they were all LIES. Gladys climbed onto the seat and began hand peddling
up K-2 huffing and puffing. She
peddled trying to keep her coordination going when she realized once again the
knitting kitten is sitting next to her preparing to also do a little hand
peddling. Gladys couldn’t take it anymore. She had, had enough. She stopped and looked over at the sweet
little old superhuman and said “if you start knitting with your feet while you
are hand peddling, I AM DONE.” Knitting
Betty White smiled sweetly and said in her saccharine voice “oh honey, I’m good, but, even I am not THAT good.” That is when
Gladys fell off the machine…… laughing.