A Little Exercise

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Me and my cancer weren’t getting along too good together. When my daughter and son-in-law stopped by to inquire about it, my son-in-law said it wasn’t a cure, but exercise might help me.

My son-in-law takes the YMCA seriously. I mean he takes advantage of their exercise equipment like nobody else I know. Of course before he even gets to the exercise equipment, he stops and pulls the entrance door open ten or twelve times to warm up for the exercise equipment.

My exercise consisted mainly of walking out into the backyard about every other day to see if it was still there.

Naturally I turned to him to recommend some exercise regimen. I couldn’t join the Y. I don’t think my body would hold up for it.

I asked him to come up with some simple exercises, and that set his brain in motion. I thought he would devise some minimal leg and arm exercises.

I told him to keep in mind I had already fallen and cracked a few bones—nose, shoulder, rib and that further detriment to my remaining bones might not be what I wanted to pursue.

He thought a while, while they were here, and said he had just the thing I needed that would cover all of my exercise needs. He promised to send me over a video via e-mail.

What I expected was a Richard Simmons video of his workout when he was too fat to work out, like maybe touch your toes once a day—with a selfie stick.

What he sent over, well, see for yourself.

I couldn’t do Rocky when I was Rocky’s age. But you know you never want to hurt anyone’s feelings, especially if you are related to him. I decided I had to try.

I don’t live in Philly, so I had to improvise. I’d run a block up my street, down the hill to the next street, and loop back at the other end of the street, and that would be the beginning.

What the police said when they stopped me was that one of my neighbors said I was dressed indecently. The policeman tried to be nice. He said I was dressed decently, but that I was falling apart, and it only looked that way.

The neighbor’s dog that I always petted when they came by, and I gave him treats, started chasing me. What do you do in a case like that, hold up a sign that says, “It’s me?” No, I ran as fast as I could. When the dog bit the seat out of my shorts, I was dressed indecently.

Of course when you’re having a good workout as I thought I was, that’s a signal for these guys and gals in their thirties and forties to come jogging past me.

These gals had muscles in their legs. If I had had an iPhone, I would have taken a picture to know what muscles I was striving for. These gals were good looking, and might have paused to come back and beat me up for taking their picture, except they deemed me to be too old to be harmful. I don’t know why they would think that. I was jogging at minus five miles per hour.

The guys had muscles on top of muscles in their legs, and their arms bulged out of their tank-tops with no sleeves. I wouldn’t have taken a picture of them because I knew I couldn’t come anywhere close to developing the muscles they had.

I made it back home. The five blocks only took me six hours, with the necessary one-hour intervals to rest. I lay down on the floor. When the paramedics came they said they thought my body was frozen in place. They asked me if I had accidentally eaten any concrete.

Let me watch that Rocky video again. There’s something I’m not doing right.

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