BoomerGirl Diary

I’m back on the exercise track after an embarrassing rib injury kept me sidelined for six weeks. (I’ll spare you the painful details. Suffice it say, it was the unfortunate result of NCAA Tournament revelry gone awry. I plead temporary mid-life insanity. I was a little bit stupid, and very unlucky. Let’s leave it at that.)

If there is a more mind-numbing mode of cardiovascular exercise on Planet Earth than the treadmill, I have yet to find it. Stationary bikes run a close second but at least, on a bike, you can thumb through Glamour magazine, mocking the latest fashion “don’ts.” Walking the treadmill is like watching paint dry, with the added bonus of sweat trickling in your eyes. And yet, it is my torture of choice.

“Why don’t you walk outside?” my outdoorsy friends ask.

Because, first of all, I explain, there’s the little matter of my workout wardrobe. Talk about a Glamour “don’t.” Nine-year-old stretch capris with holes in the crotch, paint splattered T-shirts and mismatched socks? I’d be shunned from the neighborhood association.

Then, there’s the early morning pollen count. I’d need an Army-issue gas mask just to survive the springtime air.

Besides, my speed-walking technique is something no one should witness before the first cup of coffee. I’ve got very short legs for my height, you see, so when I increase my shuffling to a fat-burning pace, I look like one of those wind-up dolls on crank. Penguins scurry behind me, thinking I’ll lead them to water.

Picture a gas mask-wearing “don’t” in gaping Lycra waddling down the street at high speed, trailed by starving aquatic birds, and you’ll know why I prefer a private, albeit tedious, treadmill routine.

Each morning, after donning my tattered garb and downing a cup of joe, I trudge upstairs to the spare bedroom to perform the following ritual:

Switch on overhead fan. Open window blinds for view of yard. Tune TV to “Today” show. Mute sound. Activate close captioning. Insert ear buds. Dial iPod to “Workout 2: The British Beat” playlist.

After a few leg stretches to prevent cramping, I hop on the conveyor belt and hit “Start.” Thus, the battle with boredom begins, resulting in a rambling 30-minute inner monologue that goes something like this:

“I’m tired. Feet are like rocks. Matt Lauer looks good. Ooh! Cardinal on the feeder. Pretty bird. Pretty Matt! How old is Meredith Viera? Darn. Forgot water. How many more minutes? 29:30. Time flies. What time is that HR meeting? So thirsty. C’mon feet. C’mon local weather cut-in.

“$135 a barrel? Blasted oil companies. Need a column idea. Rain coming. Rain is good. I love Matt Lauer. Irises are gorgeous. Is it irises or just iris for plural? I need a new playlist. Note to self. My arches hurt. Meredith’s coat is cute. Cold in New York. Bus stop. Great song. Zombies or Hollies? Should have had more coffee. It’s my left arch. That’s it. I’m cutting my hair.

“This room needs a makeover. What’s the date? Willard Scott’s face is too shiny. I don’t want to live to 100 if I have to do this every day. Close captioning needs spell check. Someone typed ‘66666666666’ by mistake. The devil made them do it. Ha. A good exercise bra, is that too much to ask? Was that the doorbell? How many more minutes? Must finish vacation plans. Desperate for a column idea. My nails are hideous. Matt Lauer, rodeo clown? That’s just wrong. Definitely cutting hair.

“Cardinals are so red. Am I breathing too hard? ‘You Really Got Me’ is really too fast. Are those penguins I hear? My socks are slipping down. Or is it the Kinks? Al Roker. Gastric bypass. Weird. I’m getting a blister. Another ‘Indiana Jones’ movie? Matt’s cuter than Harrison Ford. What time is it in New Zealand? Harrison’s cute, though. For an old guy. Is he still with Calista? How short should I go? I’m thinking Mexican for lunch.

“My kingdom for an endorphin rush. Has it only been four minutes?! ‘Medical Myths That Can Kill You’ by Dr. Nancy Snyderman. Now that’s a column. Can you die of thirst on a treadmill, Nancy? Cardinals are pooping all over the chimenea! Shoo! Fly away! Who sang ‘I’m a Man’? I’m tired. Feet are like rocks …”

And so it goes — my babbling stream of consciousness — for 30 minutes a day, until another episode of stupid mid-life insanity grounds me once again.

I should be so unlucky.