Not all of us have gym
memberships.
I get my exercise by
walking a mile, sometimes two miles around the neighborhood several times a
week. And it’s not some casual stroll,
either—it’s a very brisk walk. I’ve
always been a fast walker, and while I wouldn’t mind the company of Mr. Lucky,
I always leave him behind when I go walking because even if he went with me,
I’d leave him behind anyway. He’s always
exhorting me to “slow down” but that’ll never happen unless he puts me on a
leash along with the beagles.
And no, I don’t take
the beagles with me, either—they want to stop and sniff everything, and I just
want to walk.
What do I need with
a treadmill? I’ve certainly thought
about the what-ifs of life with a treadmill in the house. For one thing, it would allow me to go walking
at any time, regardless of the weather or temperature. I wouldn’t have to worry about suffering The Pamela Tudsbury Effect, in which every time I see someone approaching from the
opposite direction, I have to feel like a neurotic fool getting ready to smile
from forty paces away, when my forced friendliness could be all for nothing if
the other person fails to even make eye contact.
But that’s where the
advantages end. Actually, they end when
I see the price tags on treadmills. Do I
really want to take out a second mortgage just because I’m an introvert who
hates having to grin and mumble, “Hello” to strangers, and walk around slow
pokes because they might be offended by the fact that I think they’re too slow
for me even if I don’t say anything?
Shockingly enough,
even I’m not that neurotic. I walk away
from the treadmills, satisfied that I can get just as much of a workout by
walking that mile or two around the neighborhood.
As I got on the
treadmill for the first time the other day, I had to date myself by
making some crack about being like George Jetson on the dogwalker (“Jane, get
me off this crazy thing!”) that the technicians probably hear at least once a
week. Once the test was underway, I got
the hang of it rather quickly, though I was advised at one point to, “walk,
don’t march.”
Don’t march? I was marching? I left the Air Force twenty-four years ago,
and I’m still marching like I’m on my way to the chow hall? For a moment I felt like one of the von
Trapp children—I don’t play, I march. Is
that what I do when I’m perambulating around the neighborhood—I march?
Only now do I
realize what they meant. I wasn’t doing
an Air Force march, which was basically just everyone walking in time with the
same footsteps, left right left, but more of a kindergarten march, where the
children lift their knees straight up and stomp the feet straight back down. It was more of an incline than I’m used to
after eighteen years of living in predominantly flat Florida
(and by the way, I’ve now lived in Florida
But I was surprised
at the workout I got in less than ten minutes—perhaps more than I get from
twenty to forty minutes of walking one or two miles.
So maybe I would
also save more time by exercising on a treadmill. A whole half hour. But I still don’t think that’s worth shelling
out all that money that’s better spent on my bibliophilia. That and we don’t have room for it; plus Mr.
Lucky already has his own chair of exercise equipment that takes up space and
collects dust, and I might not be able to hold that over his head anymore if I
got a treadmill.
Oh, and let’s not
forget Baby Bear. In fact, let’s not
even go there. While it might be a good
workout for his pent-up energy, he’s unable to comprehend the potential hazards
and their consequences. Even with close
supervision, he’s quick enough to hurt himself in two seconds. It’s not worth the risk.
The treadmill is
fine for others, but I think I’ll continue to walk around the neighborhood
enduring slow pokes and the awful agony of having to stretch my facial muscles
into a smile every time someone comes my way.
I don’t think my
facial muscles would get such a much-needed workout on a treadmill.
