I’m waiting for something catastrophic to happen. Something must be in the works, as I have managed to make it to the pit for the eighth day in a row. Each day I have done a little more than the day before and I’m still functioning. Surely this cannot keep up.
Today I ‘m not at my best, having been out late the previous evening I would rather just pull the covers over my head and nap the day away. However, I’m made of sterner stuff than that. Daughter #1 is in much the same boat, but we still drag our unwilling back sides into the car and head to the pit.
I take up my usual spot in the crow’s nest, a.k.a., the stair thing-a-ma-jig where I can see what is going on in the pit. Today there isn’t much to comment on. The place is hopping, but the mix of people are as a whole, uninteresting. I’ve got my iPod back in working order so I tune in and tune out the world as I try to climb the Empire State Building. The dew is falling pretty good and something is taking my breath away, but once again it isn’t anything like what the song is talking about. What a shame.
I slow enough to pour some water down my gaping mouth and check out the place, just in case someone more interesting has come in. Some lady has brought a bunch of tweenie girls with her and they, for some reason I cannot fathom, are running amuck in the place. They are jumping on various pieces of equipment, punching buttons, and in general making a nuisance of themselves. I wonder who could be the owner of these brats and watch with interest until one of them makes contact with their parental unit. Guilty party is revealed.
I’m all for children being physically fit, but these girls are too small for this equipment and even if they were physically capable of using it, they would need supervision. Oh well, as long as they stay away from me I can’t worry about them. I have enough of my own problems, mainly breathing and maintaining my grip on the handrails so I don’t commit suicide on this thing. Maybe if I land on one of them it will break my fall. It’s something to ponder.
The C-27 on the skyscraper next door is about forty floors above me and climbing at a rate King Kong would envy. I’m reminded of the tortoise and the hare story. In my case, it’s more the elephant and the gazelle, but still I figure I’ve already beat this kid at one thing. I’ve made it at least 27 years further than he has and that’s one race he won’t overtake me in. Someone finally corrals the tweenies and sends clueless parent and her charges on their way. I’m sucking wind and ready to take the elevator down.
Usually I’d plop my considerable back side into a lounge chair bike about now, but Daughter #1 is on a treadmill and lucky her, there is an empty one next door, so off I go. I don’t run. It’s a personal rule of mine. Someone told me once that if I really tried it I would learn to like it. That person was wrong. I did try it. I signed up for a college class misnamed, Conditioning. It consisted of three days a week of cross country running, followed by as many sit ups as you could do in ten minutes.
Since my grade depended on how fast I ran the route and how many times I could fold myself in the middle, I gave it my all. I managed a B+ in the class and haven’t run since. I didn’t even run when I was thirty feet from the biggest bear in New Jersey. Now, if said bear had made a move toward me I’m pretty sure I would have waved the moratorium on running, but since it didn’t, I still have a perfect record going and see no reason to ruin it.
After twenty minutes walking as if a Krispy Kreme were dangling on a string in front of me I’ve put in a mile at a slight incline. I’m done, so is Daughter #1. We head to the locker room for our purses. I’ve climbed sixty-three floors and walked a mile. Not bad for an old lady.
We round the corner, headed to the tinted glass doors that promise freedom when they part and in walks M.M. Daughter #1 and I look at each other. Damn. Our timing is really off. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.