(Not Quite) Out to Pasture: A New, Healthier Me

A COLUMN BY: CURTIS COMER

I’ve never been the most physically fit guy in the world. No matter how hard I try, muscles seem to go out of their way to avoid me. In order to gain any sort of obvious mass I have to work really hard at it, and I mean daily. Unfortunately, since being laid off from my job last January, I’ve had no interest whatsoever in exercise. As odd as it may sound, given all of the free time being laid off affords, even the fairly simple chore of doing sit-ups is too much for me. Sure, I can use that time to write a novel, but working out? No thanks.

I don’t know why I suddenly lost interest in physical activity. Maybe it’s a sort of depression that I can’t quite shake. It’s not that I want to look unfit and, believe me, I haven’t exactly let myself go to pot. Still, I realize that I’m at that (ahem) age when I really need to take care of myself, not only so I look good but for my circulation, my joints and all of those lovely things that sneak up and bite us all in the ass sometime in our fifties. Fortunately, I’m naturally thin and, like my father, will probably never gain a lot of weight. (Then again, this is only fortunate if you’re not interested in building any muscle.) Basically, I still have the same body I did when I was younger, only now it has added a few pesky gray hairs here and there and lines on my face that are all my own.

I wasn’t always this stubborn about exercise. When I was a kid, the only sport at which I truly excelled was track. As a result, I jogged nearly every day when I was in my early and mid-twenties. And I lifted weights, nearly killing myself in the quest to gain the muscles that genetics seemed hell bent in denying me. I remember doing aerobics in my first apartment and driving the neighbors crazy blasting Madonna’s first album.

It was good to work out to; give me a break.

My partner, Tim, does his best to get me to exercise with him but I always seem to have an excuse to decline his offer.

“Why don’t you go to the park and take a walk?” he might suggest on his lunchtime phone call.

“Maybe,” I reply, clearly uninterested in going to the park.

Even though Tower Grove Park is mere steps away from our house, the effort just seems too much. There are things to do around the house, I’m working on my new book, I need to write this week’s column; you name it and I’ve got the excuse.

“Want to go for a bike ride?” he asks nearly every weekend.

I decline these offers, too. While I do enjoy riding my bike in the park, there are factors involved that I would rather not deal with: dodging traffic just to get across the street to the park has never been a favorite pastime of mine; dodging clueless pedestrians once we’re inside the park is another pain, but the biggest issue is Tim, himself.

“Slow down,” I panted on one day.

“We have to go fast,” Tim argued, grinning. “We have to get our heart rates up.”

I didn’t know whether to tell Tim that, if I got my heart rate up any further, I would have a heart attack or to tell him that we weren’t in the friggin’ Tour de France.

“It might help if you put out that cigarette.”

Alright, I made that last part up.

 “I think that I’m going to start running again,” I mentioned a couple of months ago.

“That’s great,” Tim replied.

I could see that he was pleased with this announcement, and I was truly serious at the time, but just the other day, exasperated that I had declined another invitation to go on a bike ride, he turned to me.

“Didn’t you say that you were going to start running again?”

“I need new shoes,” I argued.

This excuse wasn’t really as far fetched as it might sound. My running shoes are old and dotted with holes.

“Go buy a new pair,” he suggested.

“Good running shoes are expensive,” I countered, “we really can’t afford that right now.”

Tim rolled his eyes, aware that we were in a conversation that could go on forever.

“Besides,” I continued, “it’s staring to get cold outside. Maybe we should buy a treadmill, instead.”

Right, shoes aren’t in our budget but a treadmill is. I really shock myself sometimes.

“I just worry that you’re not getting enough exercise,” Tim said.

I lowered my eyes just like I did when I was a kid and my dad was giving me a lecture and muttered something about how I was “fine”. I mean, we have a very healthy diet…not too much red meat, lots of fish and plenty of fruits and vegetables. This, of course, is mostly thanks to Tim. Left to my own devices I would probably live on toast, which I would eat over the sink just to avoid making a mess.

I greatly admire Tim’s efforts to stay in shape. In addition to riding his bike at least three times a week, he lifts weights and does yoga every day. Me, I’ve almost become a piece of furniture in our home office, constantly parked in front of my laptop.

My best friend, Kris, whose only regular form of physical activity is seeing how many shot glasses she can lift to her mouth in a night, is my true hero. Even though she doesn’t run, bike or swim she is thin and beautiful. If only I could be like her.

Then again, Kris is in her twenties and I’m old enough to, well, know better. This morning, in a renewed effort to follow Tim’s advice, I actually did crunches. No Madonna this time, just a few killer crunches on the floor of our sunroom.  Maybe I’ll even go and buy some new running shoes.

Who knows? Perhaps Santa will bring me a treadmill this year and we can put it in the basement next to our weight bench. That way, even when there’s snow and ice on the ground, I can still get my cardio on. It’s going to be a new, healthier me.

And, if I don’t use it, I’ll at least have a place to hang the shirts that I’ve pulled from the dryer.

Rants and Raves can about this column can be sent to Greenwitchsf@aol.com