“Oh so you think you’re an expert on exercise, eh?”
I posed this question to my husband, 37, last night when I got back from walking Cha, my pet toupee. (More about Cha here).
I was in the mood to argue and the fact that 37 was reclined in his easy chair with an empty bag of potato chips crumpled next to him with his eyes closed didn’t stop me.
37 considers himself somewhat of an expert on exercise because of the fact that he has been studying why he hasn’t done any for the past 37 years.
And yet, somehow he still manages to weigh exactly what he did in high school. (A fact the likes of which makes me so happy, I’m positively homicidal.)
In 37′s opinion, one can never be truly “in shape” if one does not get one’s heart rate up for a specified amount of time.
Leave it to an engineer to put the math in walking! He has some sort of cardio-vascular fitness formula all worked out, and I know he’s told it to me before, but I am a number-phobe who had to quit the gym because of instructors shouting out the number of reps. And any numbers mentioned in my presence just makes me want to go deaf ASAP.
“If you don’t keep your cardio-vascular exercise up for a specific period of time, Linda, it really doesn’t matter how much you exercise, it’s not really going to do you much good.”
37 didn’t actually say this last night, but I believe he would have had he been awake. As a matter of fact, 37 tells me this quite often, and I suppose it would behoove me to take his advice, but I always quit listening right after: “if you”.
Ah well . . . I suppose not listening to or taking the advice of one’s spouse is just the way the ball bounces after 37 years of marriage . . . Oh! . . . and you if want to know the trajectory of the ball? 37 will know. I’ll ask him just as soon as he wakes up . . . . .
Until next time . . . I love you