The cats are to blame — again! If they didn’t shed enough hair in a week to fill an over-stuffed ottoman, then I wouldn’t have been forced to vacuum on Friday. And that’s the truth!
I just couldn’t stand one-more-minute of sitting on that hair-encrusted sofa and looking at that carpet with hillets of white hair obscuring any color or design. I had to drag out the broken-handled vacuum and clean away. I really did! It looked so much better after I spent an hour on it that I, then, decided that all the tables should get a Murphy Soap cleaning, and I might as well water all the plants (upstairs and down) and, just to balance things out, wash the kitchen floor. I knew better. I should have listened to those beeping Warnings Warnings Warnings in my brain reminding me of what an hour or more on my feet would do to the rest of my body. But I didn’t. I was on a putzing roll and not about to stop. Wasn’t I in better physical shape now? Shouldn’t I be able to stretch my boundaries more than before? And wasn’t the reward of being able to breathe without inhaling a mouthful of cat hair worth it all? After a few hours, the place looked fabulous.
If I had stopped there maybe, just maybe, I would have been ok, but, no, not me. The next day I took myself off to aquafit. It was Sue. Tough. I worked hard. Too hard. I knew somewhere in the back of my head that that twinge I felt when I did the Cross-Country-Twizzles was not a good thing. I was right. In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I got my payback. My brain was registering pain somewhere in my anatomy. I thought maybe it was my legs since my too-fat cat was sleeping on them but no — it was my back.
This shouldn’t have happened. I had been working diligently for more than a month with a trainer to strengthen my legs and all other parts south to avoid having that knee surgery quite yet. I was committed to my exercises — to the point of addiction. Every morning for an hour I marched and sidled and squatted and lifted and groaned. I was so dedicated I even earned a little smile of approval from my boot-camp-tough trainer. I never missed a day. So here I was, just starting my second month, new program in hand and not able to move beyond a shuffle. Not fair! Not fair! Not fair!
I could be superstitious about spring and exercise. Last year I had been going to the gym religiously, working out, getting in the pool two or three times a week and then, bango, I trip and end up with that red cast for six weeks. This time around I, thankfully, wasn’t that dramatic. I was almost wrong about that too. Last night, on the crowded subway platform, this jerk tried to trip me. I felt him come up behind me and slip his foot between my legs. I think he saw my shuffling feet and grey hair and thought, “Why not? Let’s give the old lady a thrill” It was too close to the edge of the tracks for my comfort. I screamed at him, “Bastard!” as he walked off to do some harm elsewhere. No one helped or said anything. Somehow I was able to stay on my feet. I said the angels were holding me up. My trainer said it was my stronger core that kept me from falling. I’ll go with that one for now.
Today I started my modified exercises — you can’t keep this girl down, no siree, especially when she has a trainer that won’t tolerate giving up.