Get high with me.
9:55 a.m.
The business with the presbyopia is becoming rather ridiculousness. I can no longer live in denial. Yesterday at Costco I checked out the reading glasses stand, across the top of which at eye level (my eye level, thankfully) there were holes for the afflicted to look through to determine which level of lens they needed to purchase. It turns out that I have a mild need, a 1.25 or 1.5 lens would do. I didn�t get any, though. But I was delighted when the small print suddenly came into focus as I peered through the opening.
Somehow I have managed to maintain a veneer of youthfulness in spite of the advancement of time and the way it is affecting the internal workings of my body. My skin is still relatively smooth and wrinkle free, although I�m noticing the loss of elasticity in my cheeks and there is a definite tendency now for them to �droop� a little over my jawbone. I�m the only one who notices this, however. I�m short, and relatively slim, my hair is long and curly and artificially not gray, and makeup (especially this fantastic oil I just bought from my favourite costmetic company) is cheaper than surgery. But I�m thinking it�s time to do something drastic.
My daughter, who is going to be 20 next month, is tubby. She�s only two inches taller than I am, but weighs at least 20 pounds more. Actually, I�m not sure how much she weighs, but she has a pot and thick legs, a round face, and moves very slowly. The only physical activity she does is karate, and then only two days a week. I want to get in shape, and I want her to lose weight and get in shape, so what better incentive for me (and her) than to embark on a mother-daughter exercise programme? We�re both going to suck at first, but we can only get better, right?
In the spring of 1983 (or was it 1984) when we lived in Ann Arb0r, I got very sick just before Hubby and I were scheduled to perform together. I lost my voice (he performed a solo recital), ended up in bed for days, and it took weeks for me to get back to where I had been prior. I decided then and there that I was going to make myself healthy and never get sick again. Ah, promises, promises! Anyway, I started jogging. Every morning at 6:00 I would rise, don shorts, T-shirt and running shoes, and head out, running up Pauline Street to Stadium and back again. At the beginning I sucked royally. After the width of one house, I was huffing and puffing and walking for two housewidths, then running for another, then walking for two more. By the end of the summer I was able to jog nonstop from our house out to the main road and back again, about a half-hour�s run. Once the cold weather struck, I stopped, never to start again (except for a very brief attempt the following summer with my husband, who ran literal circles around me because I was so much slower than him).
One of the reasons I didn�t pursue it, I believe, is because I only once experienced that �runner�s high� which is so highly touted in the literature. I remember that occasion specifically. A friend from Toronto was visiting with her little daughter (someone I have since totally lost touch with), and while I was running, feeling the usual pain and exhaustion and discomfort of hot feet, suddenly a feeling of euphoria washed over me, all my fatigue dropped away, I was no longer labouring with my breathing, and I felt as though I could have run all day. It never happened again. (I had a similar experience with an orgasm once, but I don�t think this is the time or the place.) Other people I know love that high. I think if I got it on a regular basis, it would give me incentive to keep up the activity.
Well, I�ll start slowly with Little Princess. Who knows?
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