Set that headline to the Neil Sedaka tune, which seems appropriate. After trying to get back into working out the last couple of days, I feel about as macho as Neil Sedaka. Not to cast any aspersions, but I haven't exactly been coming on like Ah-nold. I look in the mirror in the locker room, and I see a flabalanche.
How bad is it? It had been so long since I had worked out — maybe once or twice the middle of last year, I guess — that it took me at least 10 minutes to remember my locker combination. That has never happened to me before since I first learned to work a combination lock in the seventh grade. I've had this lock for years, and there I was sweating over the fact that I knew there was a 35 in there somewhere, and I had a general idea (within two or three numbers) of what another number was, but I had no idea in what order. And as it turned out, I was somewhat wrong about the 35, as I learned on about my 30th guess.
Anyway, on Monday I did 25 minutes on the elliptical trainer, and one circuit of light weights, then some stretches to close, and was worn out. Then Tuesday, I did 35 minutes on the elliptical, followed by five or six minutes on the rowing machine. And I experienced new vistas of being out of shape. That first day, the last five minutes on the elliptical — the cool-down, during which I reverse the action just to work different muscles — was ridiculously hard.
The only good news is that when you're 55, if you go by the charts, it's REALLY easy to reach your target heart rate.
Why do I mention this to you? Because I figure if I mention it to somebody, you'll help hold me accountable. I AM going to work out again today. Y'all hold me to it, please. To paraphrase John Winger in "Stripes," if I don't get into shape, I'll be dead before I'm 30. Or however old I am.