Home workout? Got it covered
Because I’m close enough to forty
and have spent the last fifteen years of my life completely and utterly
dedicated to my family in such a way that long ago dreams have died a slow,
painful near-death only to be resurrected by a mid-life crisis, I was jumping
for joy when my husband bought me a subscription to a rock climbing magazine
for my birthday.
Anyone who
has a subscription to a specialized magazine makes them, you know, legit. The
first issue arrived in my mailbox and I was so excited, I nearly strapped on my
climbing harness and sat cross-legged outside eating a granola bar and drinking
kombucha tea for kicks, to feel like the youthful outdoorsy person I longed to
be.
Technique,
climbs, and gear dominated the majority of the pages. There was a recipe for
some rice ball thing I laughed at because I could imagine packing them in
school lunches and visualized them sailing aerodynamically across the cafeteria.
Maybe I was just too old for this stuff, or at the very least too seasoned in
the maternal part of my life. Or maybe I just needed to let myself go and
embrace this hippie dippie Cali-style of the young, tan, and exceedingly
well-proportioned people for at least a few minutes. Forget school projects!
Who needs grocery coupons! I’m not worried about trying to figure out how to be
at three different places at the same time this week! I’m too cool for that!
I’m a rock climber!
But then, the coup de grâce. The
section that snapped me back to reality. The fitness section.
I wish I was making this up, but
I’m not. The article was all about how you don’t need a gym to get a good
workout. They listed a few exercises that were basic. You don’t need a gym to
do pushups or situps. You can easily do tricep dips on your kitchen chairs. All
of these I know made good sense. The article then continued to say that a good
way to get weight training and a good cardio workout was to, and I quote, “run
up the stairs carrying a full laundry basket.”
Or at least that’s what I think it
said. I was laughing so hard that I was in tears and potentially ruined the
page. Even now I think of all of this super “hip” rock climbers filling clothes
baskets with organic cantaloupes and fancy shoes that cost more than all of ours
combined and running up and down the stairs.
I especially think of think of it
when I’ve made five trips up and down the stairs, carrying laundry baskets full
of the dirty (and eventually clean) socks and underwear of the people I truly
love. I usually do it at top speed so that I can snag at least four minutes to
myself to read a magazine.
Cross-legged. Outside. Until the
dryer buzzer goes off.
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