The Nordic Warrior Queen said I’m getting…well, a little husky. What? “I didn’t say you were fat, dear.” Sure she didn’t. I know what it means. When I was a kid, there were three types of Wrangler jeans – Slim, Regular, and Husky. All the fat kids wore the ones labeled Husky, including Scotty Wilson, who was regularly hung from the jungle gym by his underwear at recess. I can still remember the sound of the elastic tearing, and the howls of laughter coming from the Slims and Regulars.
So I decided to do something about it. After all, I’m nearly fifty; maybe it’s time to start watching what I eat. No more barbeque potato chips, Macadamia nut cookies, deep-dish pizza, or grilled burritos. For nearly two entire weeks I stopped drinking beer, ate seventeen servings of fruits and vegetables each day, and exercised like a madman. I hit the Nautilus, did curls until my arms ached, and squatted until I couldn’t stand up. But I knew Dr. Oz (that quack) would recommend something more cardiovascular – that I should get my heart pumping.
She suggested I walk every day, but by Tuesday I was bored out of my skull. Besides, I could walk to the Grand Canyon and back and not lose half a pound. Worse, every hundred yards or so I’d get passed by one of those 70-something old fucks: the guy who drinks Wheatgrass and tofu soy shakes for breakfast, has abs of steel and the sexual energy of a sixteen-year old son of a sheep farmer. Yeah, that guy.
So I started running. Of course, the Nordic Warrior Queen said I should work my way up slowly. That running is hard on your joints. Whatever. I wasn’t going to get shown up by some Jack Lalanne wanna-be. I admit it was a little rough at first. I might have puked once or twice. But by day five, I was whizzing past that geriatric bastard. Eat dust, you old fogey. I bought a pair of $250 running shoes and dropped another $70 on color coordinated running clothes.
It was going great until one day, while making plans for the Phoenix Marathon, I tripped in a gopher hole on the second lap. I could actually feel my tendon rip. Ouch. I limped home in agony. Unfortunately, I’d scoffed at my wife’s advice, so I had to hide my pain, lest she lay that big “I told you so” on me. I lasted two hours before she got it out of me. I think she’s told everyone in her family by now that I hurt myself running – Can you believe he was running at his age? I told him not to do that. Na-na-na-na-boo-boo.
It’s just a temporary setback. I need a couple more weeks to recover, that’s all, and I’ll soon be passing that skinny old bastard once again. And so I can stay motivated, I’ve been bringing a cooler full of beer down to the track and watching the runners every afternoon. It’s important to stay hydrated.