She was a cute smart medical assistant, taking my medical history at my latest yearly exam.
“Do you exercise?” She asked brightly.
I HATE that question. But I’ve learned not to justify. Too much, anyhow.
“No, I don’t,” I admitted flatly. “I work hard, but I do not have an exercise routine that I follow.”
And she wrote down that I don’t exercise.
Like I said, I HATE it. I feel guilty and cross and it makes me want to eat french fries. I don’t even really LIKE french fries.
This morning at Shady Acres, involved in my Saturday morning routine, I watched out of the window as four young adults headed out for a walk. All four of them are big into exercise, and they completed a 2+ mile hike before brunch and came back in various states of energy and excitement and flushed accomplishment. Youngest Son and his father and I were standing in the laundry room afterwards, discussing the state of the world and the need to exercise.
“You guys just walked over two miles,” I said, “but as of now, I’ve stripped three beds, made two of them back up, done two loads of laundry, done the meds, did my ladies morning routines, made sausage gravy and baked oatmeal. But I haven’t exercised. I honestly haven’t had time!”
“That’s right. You haven’t,” said Youngest Son,
“But this week when I was having my check up, they asked if I exercised and I had to say I didn’t. I tried to say that I worked hard, but it didn’t count.”
“That’s because it doesn’t raise your heart rate,” said Youngest Son agreeably.
“No, it doesn’t,” I said, ruefully. And that was that.
However, the fact that all my hard work doesn’t count as exercise does raise my dander. Do you think that might count for something?