I have decided to pretend
that I’m healthy.
Oh, sure, I was healthy
before this, but I’m getting a little tired of my body turning on me. If it’s not bouts of pneumonia, it’s hip
bursitis, or Achilles tendonitis, or migraines, or vertigo, or flipping menopause…
this could go on and on until the complaints are longer than a Thanksgiving
grocery list.
The truth is I’m not
unhealthy, but I sure as heck could be healthier. So I invest in some exercise equipment.
The first requirement is
that the equipment needs to be something I’ll actually use. I have a universal set in the basement that
is only used intermittently, and it has basically been a coat-rack and
snowboard holder for a year now. The
second requirement is that I must be able to lift the boxes when they are
delivered to the store for pick-up because I have to get them into the house by
myself.
I am waiting for an email
that the two boxes have arrived at the store, but it turns out I am supposed to
be checking the website myself, instead.
I figure this out a few days before the stuff is shipped, so it only
sits at the store for a couple of days when I forget to check the site over and
over again. Friday night I figure out
where my equipment is – Salem, NH – so Saturday I plan to pick the stuff up
and, with any luck at all, figure out how it all goes together.
I sleep late on Saturday,
rolling out of bed around 9:00 a.m. This
is when my sister calls. “What are your
plans for today?”
So I tell her: Pick up the
boxes at the mall, stop at a couple of craft stores, pick up a zipper for a
fleece vest repair at the fabric store, spend my $10 coupon at DSW, hit a local
wine tasting of Argentinian Malbecs, and maybe go to Boston Chowder for lunch.
She’s in. It means she has to drive seventy-five
minutes from Maine, but she’s in.
Once she arrives, we take
my car to New Hampshire. The automated machine
is down, so we go find a clerk, which takes about ten minutes, but we are told
to go knock on the window in the service area (a window which does not exist,
by the way). By this time the machine is
back up and running. Within five
minutes, the rather charming service guy has two boxes loaded into my car. Neither box weighs more than 50 pounds. So far, so good.
We make a few other stops,
including waiting in line twenty-five minutes to buy a zipper for 25% off, and
a stop in at the clearance shoe section of DSW, then decide that, yes, we will
head over to the wine tasting. We sip
some Malbecs and decide that three are acceptable. I came into the store for Pinot Gris, and I’m
leaving with a Malbec. Wrong color and
everything. It is, as my wine vocabulary
will tell you, “yummy.”
We head over to Boston
Chowder for lunch, which is also yummy, then head back to the house to deal
with the boxes. I bring one box in by
myself, but it takes two of us to maneuver the second one in to the house. I probably could’ve dragged it myself, but it
would’ve taken me a while.
This is where I really
need my sister’s help. I cannot follow
directions for the life of me, especially and even when pictures are
involved. I have some sort of mental
block when it comes to constructing things.
We manage to get the manual treadmill put together without too much
trauma. The rowing machine, though, is
almost a disaster. We search around like
crazy for eight missing bolts … until we realize that the factory already
installed them, we just have to loosen them … and … just … have to … loosen …
loosen …
One of the bolts is
stuck. Thanks, factory installers. My sister Googles “stuck factory installed
bolts when putting together equipment” or some such other brilliant
combination, and is instantly told to apply hot water. We both think this will expand rather than
shrink the bolt, but we do as we are told anyway, and, damn if the Internet isn’t
correct. Seconds later, the bolt is
free.
It only takes us two hours
and one more small glass of wine each to finish putting together the exercise
equipment. Had my sister not been here
to help, I’d still be trying to put the damn stuff together. As it is, I’ve actually used it several
times. And I’ve almost completely redone
the universal in the basement.
This may actually be my
healthy New Year, after all.
That’s not the best part
of this story, though. The best part of
this story would be the shoes. That’s
right. The shoes. I buy myself another pair of sneakers and a
pair of suede lace-back boots, and my sister finds a pair of suede and patent
leather heels for her concert gigs (she’s a singer of many talents).
This year I can be healthy
… or not … but, either way, my feet will look marvelous, and sometimes that’s
all it takes in life to feel better about myself.
