Walking the Walk

In every marriage there comes a moment of truth when a fundamental incompatibility rears its ugly head and becomes an irritant in an otherwise happy union. For us, the “irritant” was exercise, or to be more accurate, the lack of it.

My husband is big on exercise. He took up jogging about 30 years ago and never looked back. He wakes up happy, puts on his running gear, and heads out for his two-mile jog at 6:00 every morning.

I, on the other hand, regard any activity that requires that much exertion before noon the work of the devil. In our 45 years together, I have managed to rebuff my husband’s entreaties to join him on his morning run with a veritable Rolodex of Dr. Seuss-sounding excuses: It’s too cold, too hot, too rainy, too snowy, too icy, too sunny, too cloudy. Or: My hair is too messy. My hair is too wet. My hair looks too good to get messy. To his credit, my husband has been extraordinarily forbearing of my innate tendency to be a sofa spud.

That is until this morning.

As I was savoring my first, absolutely must-have cup of coffee, my husband returned from his run and with great flair, tossed the newspaper on the table.

“Look at the headline,” he said.

A bit bewildered, I stared at the paper. Then I saw it. “Oh, no. Friendly’s is closing. Where will we go for our peanut butter sundaes?”

“What? No, not that headline. That headline,” he said pointing to what would become the end of my no-exercise days. There it was in boldface, 30-point type: “Study reports exercise reduces the risk of heart disease. “

“You need to start exercising, and I don’t mean walking in and out of the stores at the mall. I love you and I want you to be around for a long, long time. “

Who could resist a line like that? “OK, I said in my sincerest voice, “I’ll start exercising this weekend, I promise.”

“No,” he said, “let’s start now. It’s a perfect day for a walk, and your hair looks good, but not too good.”

It’s not fair that he knows me so well.

“All right,” I grumbled, and went upstairs to get dressed. I dug through my closet to find suitable exercise togs and emerged in a pair of torn jeans, paint-splattered sneakers, and one of my husband’s T-shirts with “Divers Go Deeper” on the front.

“Are you sure you want to go out like that?” he asked.

“It’s OK; no one is out this early any way. Just give me a second to get a few things,” I said, grabbing a bottle of water to stay hydrated, lip balm so I my lips wouldn’t get chapped, my cell phone in case one of our kids had to reach us in an emergency, and a small bag of M&M’s in case we got hungry.

We started slowly and had only gone half a block when my mouth started to feel dry, a natural occurrence when one has been panting like a dog. “When did they put this hill in the sidewalk?” I gasped between gulps of water.

“Better go easy on the water. We still have a long way to go.”

Long way? I thought we were going around the block. “I’m fine. Just a little dry. Let’s go. We can pick up the pace if you want.”

What was I thinking? My husband’s version of picking up the pace is my version of a forced march. And despite his pronouncement that it was a perfect day, it was hot…too hot. No glowing here; I was sweating big time. Large wet spots blossomed under my arms and down the front of my shirt so that the word “Deeper” looked especially…deep.

As we approached the half-way point of our little jaunt, I understood why my husband had cautioned me against drinking so much water. I was debating the merits of knocking on a stranger’s door and asking to use the bathroom vs. discreetly squatting in someone’s yard, when I heard a woman call my husband’s name.

I looked up and there she was, a pink Juicy Couture velour-clad vision, her perfectly coifed blond hair held in place by a pink visor, her tiny feet in pink running shoes and her face looking as though it had been made up by Bobbe Brown, make-up artist to the stars. And trust me, she was glowing, not sweating.

“You’re looking good,” she purred to my husband as I stood open-mouthed, my bladder making it increasingly more urgent that we make haste for home.

“Thanks,” said my husband, his face reddening.

“Have fun, you two,” she said as she power-walked passed us, her perky Juicy-emblazoned behind undulating as she went.

“Who the hell was that?”

“Oh, just one of the women who’s usually out here when I jog.”

“One of the women? There are more? Do they all know your name?”

“Most of them.”

At that moment my bladder stopped sending subtle hints and began signaling that the floodgates were in danger of letting go. In a panic, I turned and ran, beating my husband home with my bladder and most of my dignity intact.

Later, as I reflected on our morning sojourn, several things became abundantly clear. I can actually run and not pass out. Exercise is good for me. I need to get to the mall and buy a Juicy Couture jogging outfit. And there is no way my husband is ever going jogging by himself again.


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