Tuesday, October 23, 2018     Volume: 19, Issue: 33

Santa Maria Sun / Humor

The following article was posted on January 10th, 2018, in the Santa Maria Sun - Volume 18, Issue 45 [ Submit a Story ]
The following articles were printed from Santa Maria Sun [santamariasun.com] - Volume 18, Issue 45

Humor: Ariel resolves to get moving this year


Oh, great. It’s déjà vu all over again. A new year has begun and we have all jumped on the resolution bandwagon like lemmings running aimlessly to their inevitable end at the edge of a cliff.

I have long been one of those lemmings. The resolutions I made last January first? They rolled over like a bad IRA account. Time to start again.

Like most of you, I have made those annual New Year resolutions, vowing to hold firm to the promises I make to myself. I will exercise every day. I will eschew chewing junk food. I will cut back on my caffeine consumption. Then comes the ides of January when I can’t take it anymore and my staunch resolve goes all to hell in a hand basket filled with cinnamon rolls.

Part of my problem is a holiday gift I get each year—jelly belly, and I don’t mean those multi-flavored candies. I am referring to the other confections, like fudge, chocolate-covered cherries, and liquor-filled chocolates, along with all the decadent delicacies I consumed over the holidays that have resulted in my jelly belly.

It may look great like Old St. Nick, but it does nothing for me except make it harder to put on my Sketchers Go Walks. Lately I’ve only worn them to go walk to the kitchen for another cup of eggnog.

My physician, the very wise and practical Dr. Firestone, has urged me to go walk, go swim, go do anything, but just get moving, especially as I now enter the autumn years of my life, which means that I am cold most of the time.

I have come up against the harsh reality of a deadline—this March I will be 64 years old and next year I will be eligible for Medicare. I can even file for Social Security. If I want to be able to keep moving as I age, I need to get moving more often right now. Time to get serious about getting more exercise, the good doctor admonished.

You have to be a really up kind of person to like exercising. I am not that person. You must wake up, get up, stand up, sit up, pull up, push up, walk up, chin up, step up, and nut up! Thinking of exercise makes me want to throw up.

Exercise has never been my thing. It goes against the laws of nature. In the autumn things die down and sensible creatures seek shelter and sleep until spring. That is what nature intends. It’s why we celebrate that extra hour of sleep when we set our clocks back each fall.

Physical exercise is also a violation of the law of gravity, which dictates that all objects that go up must come down. I obey that law. I sit down, lie down, quiet down, stay down, and chow down.

I do not get up in the mornings so much as I roll over until my feet can feel the floor. I then ease myself into a sitting position before even opening my eyes. I do not wake up; I come to with the aid of strong coffee and an IV. This is my morning routine. Altering that routine by adding exercise upsets my apple cart. Granted, the apples on my cart are coated in caramel.

I decided to get my spouse, The Brit, to exercise with me because misery does love company. The most exercise he gets is when his English football club, Arsenal, makes a goal. Then he jumps up and down and dances around while shouting like a madman.

This idea was about as popular as Brussels sprouts for dessert. I tried body shaming him into coming with me to the gym.

“Look at that big blow gut of yours!” I scolded.

He rebounded with, “I’d rather be pushing it than dragging it, my dear!”

The British can sometimes be very cold and, yes, I have a big ass. That’s because I married it.

I hate walking on a treadmill. This was a form of punishment in Victorian workhouses. Besides, it’s so boring. You make all that effort and go nowhere. Trying to alleviate the ennui by watching television is akin to taking a hike while staring at your iPhone. I like to take my time and look around at nature. I don’t hike so much as I saunter or stroll.

The last time I tried to seriously walk briskly, I only managed it for a block before I saw several dead relatives smiling and waving me toward them.

I have also been warned by Dr. Firestone to watch what I eat. That’s easy, I thought. I like watching the Food Network for new recipes to try. The Brit keeps begging me to not experiment. This man would eat eggs, chips (Brit-speak for french fries), and baked beans at every meal, if I let him. (I don’t, for the dog’s sake.)

Our grandson, The Briteen, however, is not so fussy. In fact, it’s difficult to watch what I eat while watching what he eats and how much. I recently made a large chicken casserole. After dinner, there was enough left for another meal. Later that evening I saw the empty pan in the sink.

“What happened to the rest of the casserole?” I inquired.

“I was hungry,” said a voice coming from the vicinity of The Briteen’s bedroom.

This kid epitomizes the term “hollow leg.” He is still growing and his motto is, “What have we got to eat?”

I cannot imagine where he puts it. It must be all those workouts he does at the gym. He rows, runs on the treadmill, and can bench press 170 pounds. He’s like Iron Man!

I get in the pool and frolic to and fro before easing my butt into the whirlpool and can steam press several of his shirts. Just call me Iron Grandma!

Ariel Waterman makes a mean casserole. Send her comfort food recipes via Managing Editor Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.

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