Death Be Not Plowed

There has been no exercise regimen in my life since Christmas.  No ballet.  No swimming.  No free weights.  No Pilates.  Nada.  Nil.  Nothing.  Zip.  Zero.

But my doctor and my health coach (she comes with the health care plan at Mr. Gaelic's office) want me to exercise to help reduce my cholesterol.  It's above the normal range.  Plus my LDL cholesterol is too high and my HDL is too low. 

The health coach calls me every three weeks to discuss my plan.  The first homework was to come up with a plan to exercise.  The next homework was to start implementing the plan.  My plan, it turns out, was overly ambitious.  It fell flat just two days into it.  Actually it fell into the couch halfway through the 15-minute exercise DVD along with my assertions of "I'm gonna die.  I can't breathe.  She's trying to kill me."

Today's plan was to take a nice slow-paced bike ride along the bike trail into the city.  The problem was all the rain last night created a very humid morning.  Riding next to the river and the low-hanging fog made it all the worse, bordering on Amazonian-rain-forest humidity.

It wasn't until the bike route turned away from the river that the perspiration on my arms, and tummy, and back, and forehead, and you get the picture, began to dry.  By the time I reached the office garage, it was like riding on a nice spring day.  No more feeling like a draught horse tied to a plow.