Skip to main content

Treadmill redux

It was back to the gym today with gusto. I actually returned last week, but gently. Today's workout was back up to a full roar; running, lifting, crunching, stretching. I should be pretty well hobbled tomorrow. If you are a 40 or 50 something woman who believes everything she reads these days, you'd be convinced by the press that, if you don't run your ogle off and engage in strenuous, daily weight-bearing exercises, your bones will rapidly become riddled with holes and eventually turn to powder, after which your limp body will fall to the ground like a soggy load of laundry. Or like the wicked witch of the west. "I'm me-e-e-lting! I'm me-e-e-elting!" You'll break a hip! Yes you will! It's like the middle aged version of "A Christmas Story," (my favorite holiday flick), where poor Ralphy, whenever he tells someone he wants a bb gun for Christmas, hears, "You'll shoot your eye out." While I think much of what's written is hype, I do believe there is something to that weight bearing exercise advice. And of course, there's no reason not to be in good cardio-vascular health, what with heart disease the number one killer of women over some age or other. Then, for me personnally, there's this whole matter of being unemployed right now. I've got the time, so why not sweat a little and preserve those estrogen-starved bones. And keep that heart pumping. Besides, it's raining.
Speaking of time, I'm again twittling my thumbs, awaiting a call from prospective employers. Meanwhile, I've started another blog, one I hope will appeal to both readers and advertisers. It's called Grape Escape - www.grape-escape.blogspot.com. There's not much there yet. So it can only get better with time.
I saw a great bumper sticker today. It said, "Dog is my co-pilot." Yep. Mine, too!
A hui hou! Aloha!

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Mom

This is my beautiful mom. She died last Sunday. For those who knew her, my heart breaks with you. For those who did not, here's an introduction to the best confidante, role model and mother a girl could hope for in life. This is the obituary I'd planned to submit to the local paper, but have opted instead to publish here. Obituary: Beverly Todd Bev -- my mom -- was a longtime caregiver, advocate, and dear friend to countless elderly in South Salem. Hers was a kind and generous spirit. She devoted much of her life to the welfare of others, giving wholly of herself and doing so always with great affection and humor. She was born Beverly Marie Steinberger in Silverton, July 23, 1938, the first child and only daughter of Art and Marie Steinberger. Her brothers called her Bevvy Buns, a nickname she grew fond of and wore proudly within the family circle as an adult. Bev attended St. Paul’s Elementary School in Silverton, Silverton High School and Marylhurst Co...
2 comments
Read more

Back at it

It's been some time since I've written. My mom died in February, and I haven't had the gumption to write much, other than a couple of feature stories for the paper and the occasional pithy email to a friend. Tonight, sitting in my favorite burger joint with a pile of fries in front of me, I dunk them into a deep pool of ketchup mixed with a hot sauce. That's how Mom liked 'em. My burger? The Spicy Hawaiian, a nod to my 808 connections. It's a brilliant combination of peppers and pineapple, a favorite on the Power Stop menu. I'm sure she'd have loved it, too. There's a bubbly beer with a lime in it. That's not a homage to anything. I just like beer. These past months, I've done little but work, search and apply for jobs. Two rejection letters have landed in my email this week. Search-and-apply has become a futile obsession. It's time for a break, at least until I hear back from all those applications still floating around out there. I am...
Post a Comment
Read more

Small town observations

Every day at noon, a siren blares from atop the city government building in Gunnison. Each time I hear it, I want to shout, “Yabba dabba doo!” even though it’s nowhere near happy hour. I’ve blurted this once or twice, only to elicit blank stares in response. Am I that old? Doesn’t anyone remember the The Flintstones? I hear that horn and imagine Fred sliding down the long neck of his gravel-quarry dino-dozer (which, thanks to Jurassic Park and the miracle of Google we all recognize now as riojasaurus). Quitting time! Fred flees, his fleet feet slapping toward a rack o’ ribs and a night of good times with Wilma, Barney, Betty and Dino. That’s Dino the dino, pronounced Deeno the dyno. Think that’s delusional? Another day, walking downtown near the source of the noontime wale, it struck me, a revelation it was, that the ramp up to full blast sounds just like the introduction to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, only this is a mega-air-raid, civil-defense siren solo rather than a clarinet, whic...
3 comments
Read more