My husband and I crawled into bed last night like a couple of geriatrics. I’m so sore, I groaned. Me too, he whined. My shins are killing me.
I knew I was sore from a tough exercise class, but what was HE sore from?
Bowling. That’s what. And this is how I looked at him.
I tried to stop the nagging from happening, I really did. But as I laid there in bed thinking about his sore shins, I had a sudden flash-forward of what life will look like when I’m 64 and he is 62, and … it scared the crap out of me.
I jerked my earplugs out and I began to tell him all the reasons why he needs to exercise. I’m sure he was riveted by my tirade, which is why he didn’t respond. Finally, I demanded to know WHY HE REFUSES TO EXERCISE. That is when Robbie Hobbs made the following speech:
“I don’t exercise because it makes me miserable.
It does not make me feel ‘elated.’
It does not make me feel ‘happy.’
All of the things it makes you? It does the opposite for me.
It makes me feel tired, hungry, and sore.
It makes me miserable. THAT IS WHY I DON’T DO IT.”
I explained my fear that a motorized shopping cart is in his future, something I know I am not equipped to handle (because my bedside manner sucks), and he said not to worry because I’m going to end up with Alzheimer’s and I won’t have a clue what’s going on anyway.
And so I put my earplugs back in, and silently worried about that instead.