In the past two months I have been seriously lax on exercise. I didn’t think much of it – yeah, I put on four pounds, but I felt fine and if my resting heart rate was up in the low 70s instead of the upper 50s it was no big deal because my blood pressure was still normal.
Then came PC last week, with the five minute shimmy warm-up that I had to bail out on, and two rounds of half-remembered Dancing Drums that left me way more winded than I ever dreamed possible.
Okay, maybe taking two months off dance wasn’t such a good idea. But hey, I had just given blood that day, so that explained part of it. Right? Right. So there ya go.
Then I got my cholesterol numbers that had me up 63 points since November, from “just barely normal” to “WTF are you thinking??” Can I blame it on a bad test? I can try – the repeat draw that I’m requesting on Friday when I go to the doctor will answer that. So still, no big deal, deny responsibility and the need to change, and keep doing what you’re doing. Everything’s fine, nothing to see here, move along.
But then there was dance class last night – a full-on “learning a new choreo” dance class. If I needed any concrete evidence of how poor my cardiovascular endurance has become, last night did it. No excuses or rationalizations can explain me not being able to get through a 60-minute dance class and needing to sit down before I passed out.
I can try to blow off “it’s only four pounds” as though the number on the scale were the only thing that mattered, but that’s a lie. Health is more than a number on the scale, and I should know better.
So starting tonight I have a recurring appointment with my treadmill. This could be the re-start of a beautiful friendship.