Life in Pennsylvania – Exercise
By Seventy


I hate to exercise and the mere mention of the word causes me to reflexively form a cross with my index fingers and hiss. I have spent a life time avoiding that activity preferring instead to sit in front of the television and eat cookies. I never understood why some of my peers elected to exert themselves in what I considered pointless activities including weight lifting and games of baseball, basketball and football; especially football. Why anyone in their right mind would risk personal injury for the glory of winning a game, defies logic unless, of course, they’re well paid to do it.

A dear high school friend, who was not an athlete, approached any kind of mandatory physical exertion (P.E.) as punishment for being an adolescent. He once shared his philosophy regarding the rigors of Phys Ed as follows: “Seventy, let others climb Mt. Everest, I will lie in bed and rest”. How profound is that I thought! I was never able to articulate so succinctly my distaste for anything that would cause me to sweat and wheeze until that moment. So I resolved to find some way to circumvent the requirement of P.E.

Athletic avoidance by the indolent is a fine art especially when you’re confronted by one’s intimidating Phys Ed instructor. There only two effective ways one can weasel out of PE; either a doctor’s excuse or a note from your mommy. The gold standard of all notes was a permanent disability excuse which could be used indefinitely. Another method was to disappear after roll call but unfortunately there were too few places to hide and only a few people at a time could pull this off. Rainy days were sometimes a reprieve, but then we were wrangled into the “gym nausea” for the torture of basketball.
The beginning of the P.E. ritual was not unlike the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer but instead of any reference to Allah the instructor would yell, “Drop your socks and put on your jocks” whereupon we would be herded into a sultry locker room that reeked of sweat and underarm deodorant. From junior high (now called middle school) through the military I had to endure the torture of imposed exercise and resented every second of it and then it ended. Hooray! I’m out of the military and I can resume eating Oreos until I’m black and white, or so I thought. The career in construction I chose required significant physical effort resulting in perspiration and muscle strain but not as much as previously mentioned. The exertion I expended slugging nails for 24 years managed to contain my girth but age and several career changes conspired to lower my metabolism and level of physical activity.

Time goes on and so does my waistline. I was never svelte but now I have ballooned from 175 lbs to 220. I am almost as big around as I am tall…Nuts! A recent visit to my doctor revealed I’m pre-diabetic and that I must do something about it. “What can I do?” I asked. “Oh, the usual; diet and exercise”, she said dispassionately. This is not good news. I’ve done enough exercise to last a life time but there’s no weaseling out of it this time. To that end I reluctantly signed a contract with a local gym. It’s a reasonably new place in good repair and is not fragrant with “ode de arm pit” The clientele range in age from early twenties to octogenarians with a variety of body types that include fat, thin, wrinkled, tight and muscular. Among these phenotypes there are a few women who are absolutely frightening in appearance. One woman in particular was so muscular that Arnold Schwarzenegger couldn’t hold a candle to her. At first blush I thought it was a man dressed in a bra and shorts but when I saw her working out on machine adjacent to mine, her gender was apparent even though she was doing 100 lb curls.

Exercise machines contained with the building are in fact variants of ancient instruments of torture that stretch, compress, twist and extrude one’s musculature. The only difference between the two is that the contemporary machines are self administered. At the conclusion of using one of these machines it felt as if an acetylene torch had been applied to my muscles. “Pain good” says the guy with the low forehead sitting next to me. I give him a wan smile and move on to the next machine. I conclude my gym session by riding the recumbent “death cycle” for a little cardio. I set the machine up for fat burn and pedal it for 14 minutes while sweat cascades from my body. My towel and tee shirt are soaked, all for 86 calories. Crap! That’s not even a slice of bread!

Notwithstanding my hatred of anything resembling exertion the view from the “death cycle” is pretty good. One can watch young and attractive women from a distance performing their exercise routines including Zumba calisthenics. It is amazing the range of motion these women have. Well, maybe there’s something redeeming about keeping fit after all.

This is Seventy writing you from Lahaska Pennsylvania, a great place to break a sweat. Y’all don’t forget to write.