A Power Walk Down Memory Lane
Last week I started going to the gym. I have been wanting to go for… oh I’d say about three years now. I found someone to workout with, which helped tremendously. But there are several other reasons why I finally got off my lazy butt and joined the ranks of treadmillers and benchpressers I see through the Siegel Center windows every time I go to Kroger to buy my weekly supply of Poptarts and chicken wings.
Reason #1: For my Death class, I have been reading a book called “How We Die” by Sherwin B. Nuland. The title pretty much sums up the contents of the book. I have decided, after reading a particularly gruesome chapter about heart disease and myocardial infarctions, I would like to prevent or delay these conditions from happening to me as much and as long as I possibly can.
Reason #2: My arm muscles have atrophied to the point where picking up a pencil is often exhausting and grueling work. Sometimes I give up and take a nap instead.
Reason #3: I’d like to tell the “Do you have tickets to the gun show?” joke without being mocked by my peers.
So far I’d say it’s going pretty well (I’ve progressed from pencils to highlighters), and I definitely feel healthier. But as I was running on the treadmill, I was uncannily reminded of a much darker time in my physical fitness past. Specifically it was called high school P.E. I truly despised this class, and praise God I only had to endure it for two years. I can still remember when it was time for the so-called “Physical Fitness Test” or “PFT” (pronounced “pfft”). I am still not entirely certain what the point of the PFT was or why we needed to take it. I think it may have been a chance for the jocks to show off and the, let’s say, athletically challenged a chance to feel more weak and awkward. I particularly hated the mile run which, by the time I was finished, my teacher and classmates had given up waiting and were already back inside.
The first day of high school began in P.E. with Ms. Turner, a self-proclaimed virgin and a student-proclaimed crazy person. Having reached her tenure long, long ago is probably the main reason why she was still allowed to teach. I can still recall our month-long volleyball unit, where she carefully oversaw our game from a high platform next to the net. More often than not, this would be accompanied by her whistle blowing and shouts that we weren’t setting the ball in the right fashion, followed by an almost fanatical cry of “ROTATE!” I also think she used to call me Robin, or maybe Steve (no, seriously).
But all of that is in the past. Now I get to choose whether or not I want to exercise. And exercise I shall! Or my name isn’t Steve.
Reason #1: For my Death class, I have been reading a book called “How We Die” by Sherwin B. Nuland. The title pretty much sums up the contents of the book. I have decided, after reading a particularly gruesome chapter about heart disease and myocardial infarctions, I would like to prevent or delay these conditions from happening to me as much and as long as I possibly can.
Reason #2: My arm muscles have atrophied to the point where picking up a pencil is often exhausting and grueling work. Sometimes I give up and take a nap instead.
Reason #3: I’d like to tell the “Do you have tickets to the gun show?” joke without being mocked by my peers.
So far I’d say it’s going pretty well (I’ve progressed from pencils to highlighters), and I definitely feel healthier. But as I was running on the treadmill, I was uncannily reminded of a much darker time in my physical fitness past. Specifically it was called high school P.E. I truly despised this class, and praise God I only had to endure it for two years. I can still remember when it was time for the so-called “Physical Fitness Test” or “PFT” (pronounced “pfft”). I am still not entirely certain what the point of the PFT was or why we needed to take it. I think it may have been a chance for the jocks to show off and the, let’s say, athletically challenged a chance to feel more weak and awkward. I particularly hated the mile run which, by the time I was finished, my teacher and classmates had given up waiting and were already back inside.
The first day of high school began in P.E. with Ms. Turner, a self-proclaimed virgin and a student-proclaimed crazy person. Having reached her tenure long, long ago is probably the main reason why she was still allowed to teach. I can still recall our month-long volleyball unit, where she carefully oversaw our game from a high platform next to the net. More often than not, this would be accompanied by her whistle blowing and shouts that we weren’t setting the ball in the right fashion, followed by an almost fanatical cry of “ROTATE!” I also think she used to call me Robin, or maybe Steve (no, seriously).
But all of that is in the past. Now I get to choose whether or not I want to exercise. And exercise I shall! Or my name isn’t Steve.