Recently I traveled to my ancestral home. I hadn’t been home for years. True to the game, this time around, I was struggling with something I have never had any issue with before; weight. As I am writing this, I am heavier than I used to be six months ago. I now understand the concept; it’s easy to gain and hard to lose.
On average, I am still fit. Or at least I’d like to think so. I wasn’t worried much although a week before I left my Family Doctor had screamed at me to “watch what I eat.” The weight gain I had reluctantly entertained wasn’t that bad. I kept convincing myself.
Moreover, where I come from, being lean isn’t necessarily cool. We associate skinny with poverty. Something must be wrong for you to lose a certain amount of weight. Chubby is okay. Chubby is wealth. You are doing good for yourself. Your Mom can cry just by looking at you and realize you are nothing but walking bones.
But even with the above consolation prize, I just hate when I seem to lose my breath even for a short distance run or walk. A year ago, I could win a running race with my boys and win. Nowadays when they suggest Dad let’s race, I have to come up with any excuse not to put myself on the line to be embarrassed. But the realization that something is wrong came when my 85 years grandma asked me to accompany her to the hospital for her regular diabetic check-up.
Coming from the country where I could grab cash from a drive thru’s ATM, wash my car while seated at the driver’s seat, I quickly offered to go get the car. Grandma was like,” Nah, we don’t need a car. We will walk. It’s how I exercise and that way you and I can have more time to talk”. Okay, grandma.
In my mind, grandma is going to get tired at some point, and we are gonna call for help or something. We took off. In the first couple of minutes, I was on track. Breezing and enjoying the penetrating African sun. As we kept walking, however, I started feeling this tingling sweat inside. I was sweating. Grandma was as cool as nobody’s business. She was walking comfortably as if she’s seating in her living room watching the 8’oclock news. She was literally enjoying the walk with her oldest grandson.
Too embarrassed to ask Grandma for a break, I kept walking along. How can I ask her to slow down or stop. She’s 85 for God’s sake. Inside I was burning like a boiler. If I forced a smile, it was coming out like a grizzly bear with a bad tooth. Suddenly, I felt anger penetrating me like a quick pain. How can someone twice my age be this fit and I am not? Is my excuse for getting injured four weeks ago and therefore quit my exercising regiments enough?
By the time we reached the hospital, I wasn’t just sweating like someone who just crossed the finishing line at the London Marathon, but I felt as though I had swallowed a hand grenade. My 85 years old grandma had reminded me what it takes to remain fit. Skip the luxuries whenever you can. Stay active.
When I returned to True North, I had to make a plan. A plan to stay fit. I am on the way. Here’s how you can join me;
0 Comments:
Post a Comment