The Virus is a dirty word. It is now, “Whatever that crap is going on out there,”
My increasing ass has not been out of the house in three months. My largesse has not gotten off the damn couch except to go to the kitchen or bathroom.
My fat head decided it was an excellent exercise opportunity to walk twelve blocks to my daughter’s house.
Twelve blocks, pssshhh. That’s nothing. I used to walk ten to fifteen miles, no problem. I used to run stairs. I used to lift weights, swim laps for an hour, carry a laundry basket up from the basement.
I used to not be 53.
The first part of my walk was The Hill. Athletes in training use this hill to get ready for Iron Man competitions. MMA cage fights. Marathons. Members of the National Guard have used it to prep for their month of training.
My old ass argued. Those people use The Hill going up. I would be walking down. Easy peasy.
Fuck that hill. Up and down.
At the bottom, I reminded myself how to breathe. As long as my intake of air did not exceed my oxygen needs, I’d be fine. I told myself this.
Down the hill, turn the corner, toward a street sign, my optimism and oxygen were still with me. When I reached the street sign and saw I’d gone one fucking block, my pessimism called me a dumbass.
Going home meant climbing up The Hill. That was not going to happen. Eleven blocks to go.
The next two blocks were relatively uneventful. Other than realizing I might possibly be getting hot. The block after that, my intake of air increased my oxygen needs.
With seven blocks to go, my 18 year-old self started insulting my 53 year-old self.
I told you not to start smoking.
I told you not to get fat.
I told you not to give up regular, daily exercise.
My 53 year-old self told my 18 year-old self, anorexia is arrogant.
You skinny bitch.
Concave tummies are not sexy.
She came back with fat bitch, bubble tea boobs, and concave is a hell of a lot better than convex.
I couldn’t argue because my left knee gave out a little bit and I had to lean against a landscaped wall to get my breathing slowed down so I didn’t pass out on a sidewalk.
With five blocks to go, my legs felt like spaghetti noodles. Skinny Bitch Me said, “Try fettuccini, you old bat,”
Fat Bitch Me noticed the only other person on the planet walking toward me a block down the sidewalk.
We timed our walking so we passed each other in a business driveway entrance. He went six feet that way, I went six feet this way and, together, we made a twelve foot semi-circle.
Social interaction during a pandemic. He nodded at me, I nodded at him. He seemed nice. In his American flag sunglasses shaped like stars.
With one block left, I was sure I’d die.
So far, I haven’t.
My calves still remind me, two days later, you can’t walk twelve blocks after being sedentary all winter.
My step counter tells me twelve blocks is actually 1.5 miles.
It also tells me I made it to my daughter’s house in 34 minutes.
Which means I have a 22 minute mile.
Skinny Bitch Me just laughs.