About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Getting back into the grind after a cold can be a challenge. This morning, I made it to the gym for the first time in a few days. Figuring I wasn’t quite yet up to pretending I could play squash again, I decided to try out a stationary bike.
You’d think I could spend twenty minutes riding a bicycle that goes nowhere without any sort of issue or confusion. You would be sadly mistaken.
I picked out a bike in the back of the room, set my towel on the floor, turned on my MP3 player, popped in the headphones, and started pedaling. Nice and easy at first; I didn’t want to gank a flexor or something in the first five minutes back in the gym.
(‘Gank a flexor’. That’s gym talk, folks. Don’t be afraid of all the technical lingo. It just means to hurt an… um, well, there’s this ball-and-socket thingy, see, and… oh, it probably has to do with the anterior cruciate doohickey, or… uh, you know, proper stretching and range of motion and the latissimus dorsal fin. Or something.
Look, it means ‘a boo-boo’, okay? Somewhere on your leg or your back or your earlobe or something. What do I look like, Jack Lalanne over here?
No, don’t answer that. Moving right along.)
” If I just started pressing buttons or opted for the ‘Random Workout’, there’s no question I’d be stuck with the three-hour marathon Himalaya climb setting, meant for former Olympians and experienced sherpas only.”
So, I’m on the bicycle, taking things easy. Partly to warm up the old legs, but mostly to conserve some energy to sort out the dizzying array of flashing lights and indicators winking at me from the console. The thing had a numeric keypad, a little LED racetrack to show progress, an adjustable fan, heads-up displays for heartrate, RPM and equivalent speed, and three or four other buttons and numbers that made no sense to me. Was one to call the front desk to order an in-workout sandwich? Would the bike dispense twenties if I punched in my PIN number? Could they wire it to call the EMTs to drive me home after a couple of miles? Quite possibly. I’m pretty sure its the same bike model they used to rebuild Steve Austin bigger, faster, stronger and with outstanding ass tone.
I’m assuming. Because if a bike’s got all those bells and whistles and blinky lights and doesn’t give you a great ass, then there’s clearly something very wrong with the equipment design. And they should probably ask for their six million dollars back.
I spent a couple of minutes fiddling with the controls, making sure to be very careful with my choices. I know my luck. If I just started pressing buttons or opted for the ‘Random Workout’, there’s no question I’d be stuck with the three-hour marathon Himalaya climb setting, meant for former Olympians and experienced sherpas only. They’d find me in the gym the next day, still pedaling and leaning back at a forty-five degree angle, already dead for several hours. And they’d say I died doing what I loved — getting my ass handed to me by technology, once last time.
But hey. What an outstanding ass it would be. Almost worth the torture and dying and the gym fine for not wiping off the machine when I’m done.
But not quite. So I was extra specially careful with the buttons.
I deciphered enough of the calisthenic hieroglyphics to ask the nice machine for a flat, level course and a difficulty setting of ‘3’. I didn’t know how far up it went — was that 3 out of 100? 3 out of 10? 3 out of 4,306? No idea. But I put my money, and my disappointing saggy ass, on it not being 3 out of 3, and therefore not beyond my limited capabilities at eight thirty in the morning after five days of hacking up chunks of what I think I’m hoping was lung. Not that I’m happy to have coughed up lung for a week, but if those weren’t bits of lung, then they were something else — quite possibly an organ I’m even more attached to. Like a kidney. Or a flexor. Or a dorsal fin. So I’m sticking with lung, until an X-ray or MRI or bit of fish scale proves otherwise.
Back to the bike.
With my (admittedly pretty easy) course set on the bike, I thought I was finished with the technical portion of the program and focused on pedaling. I cruised from maybe fifty RPM or so while I was fiddling with the controls up into the eighties without any real trouble. Level 3 being reasonably gentle — it’s probably meant for invalids and toddlers and people without legs, mostly — I went strong through the first five minutes, making the little LED lights on the racetrack go through two whole laps and start a third. I pressed my thumbs onto the little metal heartrate monitors on the handlebars, and saw my rate climbing steadily. Not quite in the ‘aerobic workout’ range yet, but I was getting there. Nothing left to do but sit back and pedal my buns off. Hopefully literally.
That lasted for about thirty seconds. Then I got bored.
Look, it’s one thing when you’re driving a car around town — there are things to see, a route to consider, small animals and schoolchildren and mailboxes to mostly avoid. You stay engaged throughout the ride. I assume riding a bike through the streets of Boston would be much the same, only with the anxiety and terror and fear for your life that pedaling on the same streets as a bunch of Massholes must provide. But working those legs in the back of a suburban gym on a sleepy Monday morning just doesn’t do it in terms of stimulation. I needed entertainment, dammit, and I needed it now. Or then. Which, at the time, was now. You know what I’m saying.
That’s when I noticed the little television screen sitting idle past the handlebars. Ah, so that’s what the remote control clipped to the bar under the console was for. I’d assumed that was for putting the bike on autopilot for a while, in case I needed a bathroom break or needed to reheat my sandwich or something. A little TV would be just the thing, though. So I punched the power button, and found the channel changamagig to find ESPN. Might as well watch other world-class athletes while I was sculpting my own temple. The monitor awoke on channel 2, so I starting flipping upward.
*click* *click* *click* *cli-
With no warning, the TV shut off, stranding me somewhere between The Price Is Right and an infomercial for something called ‘Maxiglide’. Which is either some kind of apparatus for straightening hair or the scariest damned dildo I’ve ever personally seen. The television went dead before I could figure it out, frankly. But boy, that girl in the chair with the sheet around her shoulders sure looked happy. Which doesn’t exactly narrow it down.
Anyway, I still wanted to catch some SportsCenter, so I hit the power button again, and continued my surf upwards. And again, after three or four channels, the TV suddenly and unceremoniously went black. I was about to give up on yet another piece of technology smarter than me when I noticed that the remote sported a label reading ‘CardioTheater’.
Oh, I get it. Now I see how the game is played. This sadistic little monster wants my heart rate in the ‘cardio’ range. And I’m betting it won’t give me my tasty TV carrot until I’m there. Fine. Cardio, here I come.
I leaned forward in my banana-seat saddle and put the toes to the grind. My RPMs edged up through the eighties and into the low nineties. Sweat began to pool in my eyebrows, and probably in other fuzzy places, too. With thumbs glued to the heartrate doohickeys, I could see that steadily climbing, too. With just one small hiccup when I tried to reach down and pick up my towel while still pedaling — yeah, don’t ever do that, unless you happen to enjoy 93 RPM sideways wedgies — I soon found my heartrate approaching the ‘cardio zone’. One BPM over the line, and I jabbed a sweaty paw at the remote control, determined to have my SportsCenter yet.
The TV flashed on and I clicked up one channel to find John Buccigross behind the desk in mid-sentence reporting about the A-Rod steroid scandal. And then…
He was gone. The TV went dark. Again. Clearly, the technology wasn’t listening to me. Maybe it wanted me to pedal harder now. So, fine.
Up to 95 RPM, 96, 97. Television on. Television off. Dammit.
Now 99 RPM, and a heartrate solidly in cardio land. Still only three seconds of love at a time from the SportsCenter crew. Time to turn it up a notch.
I peaked at 102 RPM, about as fast as my wiggly legs would take me without flailing my way off the bike and into a bank of treadmills. My heart raced, the monitor showing it inching near the top of the ‘cardio zone’ and into something called the ‘high impact zone’. Was that high impact on the heart, on the floor, or on the wall behind me? I didn’t want to find out. For the mere sake of scientific curiosity — because there was no way I could see any longer with the sweat pouring into my eyes and all the spots circling — I stabbed a shaky finger into the remote and vaguely saw colors and shapes appear on the TV screen.
For three seconds. Then, inky blackness. Fearing that blackness might soon invade my entire field of vision, I backed down from my pace, cooled off with a light pedal for a few minutes and finally, rubber-legged, stepped off the devil bike, defeated and score updateless.
This evening, when I’d mostly recovered, I mentioned the ordeal to my wife. She belongs to a gym in the same chain, sometimes rides the bikes, and I assume they have similar equipment. She’s an athletic girl, but I’m not sure I see her pedaling more furiously than I for a scant few minutes of boob tube entertainment, so I asked if she ever tried to watch TV on the stationary bike.
She said sure, all the time.
I pressed her, asking how in god’s name she managed to reach — and presumably sustain — a pace that satisfied one of those ‘CardioTheater’ bikes, when I could barely get a peep from the anchor’s desk before the fool thing shut off on me. Either she’s been taking professional spinning classes behind my back, or there’s something wondrous and remarkable that I’ve missed somewhere in the region of her thighs. I should probably do a little recon, just to check it out. Scope out the area, I said. If I’m not back in an hour, send a search party. Or a cigarette. Whichever.
She wasn’t having it. Circling back to my original question, she just shrugged and said:
‘Eh, it’s not the pedaling. You just plug your headphones in and it stays on.‘
Wait. You just what, now? With the headphones. And it stays? Not the pedaling? So now I can’t walk for the next three days why, exactly?
I guess that’s what I get for assuming that something named a ‘CardioTheater’ would have anything to do with, you know, actual cardiovascular exercise. Silly me. Maybe next time I’ll work out my brain before I head out to exercise my body.
Or ask my wife for help. She knows about all that gym equipment, I’ll bet. And she’s got the thighs and the flexors and buff dorsal fin to prove it.
Permalink | No CommentsSo. Valentine’s Day is coming up. A time of the year that strikes fear in the hearts of men everywhere, a time when roses are great — but only if they’re the right color, candy is swell — unless she’s in the wrong mood, and sweet talk melts her heart — assuming you don’t say anything stupid, use only appropriate language and can actually remember her name this time. Basically, if you’re equipped with a penis and in a relationship, you might as well just start sleeping on the couch now for practice.
But fear not, intrepid husbands, boyfriends, fiancees and ‘sugar sons’! For I have not one but two love-related posts from these very archives (and another one that isn’t!) that is guaranteed to get you out of the doghouse and back into the bedroom in no time.
“Basically, if you’re equipped with a penis and in a relationship, you might as well just start sleeping on the couch now for practice.”
Or, they’ll distract you from your misery while you’re camped out in the garage after she stomps on the flowers and starts winging furniture at your head. Eh, what do I care which? It’s not my marriage we’re talking about. This time.
So enjoy the Valentiney goodness dripping off the links below. With all the sap, pap and sentimental hoohah floating around this time of year, these words should provide you a solid logical footing for handling this year’s festivities.
(Note: Use of any of the methods, activities or suggestions contained in the following pages is not recommended, under any romantic circumstances. We hold no responsibility for the huffyhood, frigidity or stomping-back-to-daddyness that may result from trying these things at home, and we cannot assist you personally or financially with couples counseling, divorce proceedings or getting those high heel dents out of your Jeep Cherokee. Proceed with extreme amorous caution.)
On selecting a card: Yes, I’m a Hopeless Romantic
(Just replace “anniversary” with “Valentines’ Day” while you read that one. Eight of one, half dozen of the other…)
On choosing a bouquet: Say What with Flowers?
And, with a huge assist from my friends at The Science Creative Quarterly, who were kind enough to publish it prior to V-Day two years ago, a sober and revealing analysis of this crazy ‘love’ word people keep throwing around: Love in the Laboratory.
That’s all for now. Fellas, now you can give your lady a nice card, an appropriate bunch of blooms and a scientifically-tested sappy sentiment of your choice this Valentine’s Day. No need to thank me now; you can always send your undying gratitude after the big day has passed.
And yes, feel free to call from the garage, or whichever motel you check into. I’ll understand.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI’m still fighting the cold I mentioned yesterday, though I did manage to trudge my sniffling ass into the office today.
While I was there, I was a good little workling and entered my sick day into the time reporting system. The computer whirred and recomputed my remaining time, then printed this helpful little message:
SICK TIME ENTERED. CAUTION: You now have: 458 sick hours remaining.
I”m guessing the ‘CAUTION’ part is standard verbiage. Because eleven-plus weeks of sick time remaining doesn’t sound like something to be particularly cautious about.
“I was a like a sore-throated kid in a tongue depressor store.”
(Like I said yesterday, I haven’t been sick in quite a while. Quite a long while, it would seem. And I remember being sick a few years ago over Christmas break, which sucked in terms of yuletide spirit — but didn’t hurt at all in accumulating those boo-boo days.)
I’m not sure how much sick time we get per year, but I got word recently that I’ve been a ‘valued employee’ at the office for five years now. There’s even some sort of appreciation gala scheduled in a few weeks, which I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in attending. What’s an ‘appreciation gala’, anyway? Do the HR people and bean counters get together and applaud in our direction for a half hour? And if the twenty- and thirty-year folks get gold watches and steak dinners for their service, what do we fivers get? A used Timex and a Big Mac? A hocked Casio and a tuna sandwich? A picture of a watch and a coupon for Denny’s? I think I’m good, thanks just the same.
Meanwhile, I tallied up my sick time and realized what a gold mine I’m sitting on. My mistake, I realized later, was actually telling someone about it. But I couldn’t help it. I was a like a sore-throated kid in a tongue depressor store. With my officemate sitting right behind me, I blurted out:
‘Holy shit, I’ve got four hundred and fifty hours of sick time left!‘
‘Wow, really?‘
‘Yeah, that’s what the system says. Damn. I could call in sick on Monday and not come back until May.‘
‘Um… yeah. Don’t do that.‘
Did I mention my officemate is also the group leader? The woman in charge of hiring and firing and the wording of official reprimands in case of employee misconduct? Yeah, that one. Probably not the first person I should be floating a plan past about defrauding the place out of two months of sabbatical pay while I’m ‘suffering’ from leprosy or colic or hysterical pregnancy or something.
Not that I would do that, of course. But it’s fun to talk about. Unless you happen to be chatting with the person whose job it is, in part, to make sure that you never, ever actually do that sort of thing. Pfffft. Killjoy. She’s probably one of the clappers at the employee appreciation galas.
Still, it would be nice to have a month or three off occasionally. Like being a schoolteacher, without all the getting up early or transferring knowledge or dealing with small children. In other words, the best of all possible worlds. And we work at a hospital, so there’s a mandatory TB screen for all employees every year. All it would take is a positive test there, and I’m sure they’d send me home to recover for a few weeks. For the good of the patients. Who am I to argue against the good of the patients, I ask you?
Of course, I’d have to figure out how to fake a positive tuberculosis test. That would probably require some sort of research, and looking at some pretty nasty pictures. Also, I’d have to rub poison ivy on my arm or get some kind of body art or rash tattoo or something. Sounds like a lot of work. I’d have to take a month’s worth of sick days just to do the research and have the ink done. Probably not worth the effort.
So, for the moment, I’ll hold onto my sick time, I guess. I don’t want to put the group in a bind, or get into trouble with the brass at work. Also, how the hell do you explain an angry red, blistery forearm tattoo to your wife? ‘What, you never noticed my bubbly port wine birthmark‘? ‘I’m sure it’ll go away in a few months… assuming I survive that long‘? ‘Honey, I joined a new, highly contagious gang‘?
Nah. I’ve been married a dozen years. Anything that’s likely to get me less sex at this point is clearly out of the picture. Looks like that sick time will just have to sit there for a while longer.
Unless, you know, I’ve still got a sniffle on Monday morning. Then, all bets are off.
Permalink | No CommentsSo, I’m sick. Stayed home from work today, sniffled around in my pajamas, lay on the bed and moaned to no one in particular, the whole nine yards. When I do sick, I don’t screw around.
This is the first time in a while I’ve had an illness of any severity, so I’m a little out of practice. I used to get sick quite a lot, but for the past few years I’ve been able to avoid anything more than the occasional cough or mild congestion. This time, not so much.
I blame the children.
I don’t know which children, exactly, but I’m pretty sure they’re to blame for this. The last time I was properly sick, it followed on the heels of touring the Boston Science Museum with a visiting couple and their daughter. She was perfectly healthy, as far as I could tell — but the gaggle of snurfling, hacking and sneezing kids in the museum was overwhelming. I might as well have French kissed Typhoid Mary; I was out of commission for three days.
“When I finally did get to sleep, I dreamt the sweet and patient dreams of a man who knows he’s probably going to feel like raw congested ass when he wakes up.”
This weekend, we had more visitors with children on Saturday night, and attended an unexpectedly ‘kid-friendly’ Super Bowl party on Sunday. Very kid-friendly. When they weren’t running around upstairs working themselves into a lather, they were unleashed on the host’s Wii in the living room. All that Wii-ing about just flings the germs in all directions, apparently. You’d think all the beers and pre-game shots would kill off some of the bugs, but no. By Monday night, I felt a sick coming on, and there was little I could do to stop it.
I fed the germs NyQuil. They laughed. I poured Theraflu down my throat at them. They got out tiny little surfboards and rode the wave down into my lungs. Where they evidently made popcorn last night, because I couldn’t stop coughing for hours. And I think I choked up a kernel or two.
The nice thing about this illness is that it’s had a little bit of everything. Oh, you’d get bored if you just had a sinus headache, or a raspy cough. So these bugs have helpfully provided a wide range of symptoms with which to contend — sneezing, wheezing, a runny nose, fever, aches, even a brief but thoroughly unpleasant, shall we say, ‘gastrointestinal component’. Evidently, when these germs do sick, they don’t screw around, either.
The worst of it — I hope — came last night, hence my day of blankets and bed rest and footie PJs today. The chills and coughing kept me up well into the wee hours of the morning. When I finally did get to sleep, I dreamt the sweet and patient dreams of a man who knows he’s probably going to feel like raw congested ass when he wakes up. So that was nice.
As the day has worn on, the symptoms come and go, but I think I can see the light at the end of the Kleenex box. The coughing isn’t quite so phlegmy, the chills not quite so shivery, and the ‘gastrointestinal component’… well, let’s just not talk about that, eh? I’m not sure ‘explosivey’ is even a word, so we should probably just let sleeping colons lie at this point.
So I’m thinking, if I can get a few hours of rest tonight, I might just be on the road back to Wellsville. Of course, to avoid a relapse, I’ll have to minimize my exposure to any children that might be lurking around over the next few days. Let my immune system build its defenses back up, and I might stand a fighting chance against the next hanta this or bubonic that that one of those little buggers lobs my way. My wife says that if I were around kids a little more often, maybe I’d have developed more resistance to these bugs common in the under-twelve crowd.
Right. I’d be more resistant. I’d also be dead, felled by some flesh-gnawing, antibiotic-resistant, six-eyed slavering supergerm that lives in pre-teen gullets and leaps out at unsuspecting adults the first chance it gets. Also, I’d have to spend more time with kids, so that’s two strikes right there.
I’ll just take my chances with the odd germ exposure and suffer through a kid flu every couple of years. That seems a hell of a lot easier. Also, if I play my cards right, I’ll have the Wii all to myself next time there’s a party. I like those odds.
Permalink | 3 CommentsNear my workplace, there’s a CVS pharmacy / drug store / convenience mart. I’m in there occasionally — it’s where I buy those Odwalla bars I find morally-disagreeable-but-oh-so-tasty — and things generally look pretty much the same. Shelves full of snacks, fridges stocked with drinks, gum and candy by the registers, toiletries and greeting cards and cheap knockoff doodads scattered throughout. But I was in there today — yes, buying another non-modified genetically inferior granola bar — and noticed a couple of new things. Allow me to share.
First, while I and my stupid non-bionic energy bar were waiting in line, I glanced over at the pharmacy desk, around a corner from the main registers. On the counter was a sign in a little plastic stand, with a few typed sentences. Most of the text was too small to read from my vantage point, but I could easily make out the top line, which read, in big bold letters:
“Look, I’ve got nothing more against Oprah than the next non-watching hetero guy who doesn’t get what all the fuss and the hooting and the yoyo weight thing and the bald twangy guy with the pornstache are all about.”
‘AS SEEN ON OPRAH!‘
Hrm. Look, I’ve got nothing more against Oprah than the next non-watching hetero guy who doesn’t get what all the fuss and the hooting and the yoyo weight thing and the bald twangy guy with the pornstache are all about. And if she wants to peddle advice or give away toasters or sit around with seven million of her closest friends and talk about some book none of them got around to reading, then I’ve got no problem with that.
But in the pharmacy? Is there an Oprah Analgesics Club now that I don’t know about? Is she really endorsing medical products now — and worse, is the pharmacy actually encouraging it? It would seem so. And that doesn’t seem right.
Sure, if the sign said, ‘AS SEEN IN THE NEW ENGLAND MEDICAL JOURNAL!‘, or if C. Everett Koop ran a coffee talk and pharmaceutical product highlight show — ‘Here to sing us a ballad from his new album, let’s welcome… Amoxicillin!‘ — that might work. But shilling over-the-counter medicinals based on their appearance on a daytime talk show? What’s next, choosing an HMO based on a Rikki Lake monologue? ‘Jerry Springer’s Big Book of Hepatic Oncologists’? A ‘Dish on Brain Surgeons’ segment on The View? Weird.
Putting that aside, I moved to the register, where I saw the latest Cosmopolitan magazine proudly on display. And the first ‘teaser’ headline, given tip-top billing, which read:
‘WHAT SEX FEELS LIKE FOR MEN‘
Okay, fine. Ladies, I’ll save you six bucks, or whatever this particular periodical costs. You want to know what sex feels like for men, here it is:
‘OoooooOOOOOOooooooh!
Sweet.
Hey. We got any Chee-tos?‘
That’s pretty much the gist of it. Mystery revealed. You can thank me later. With Chee-tos.
Finally, I made my way to the register, and used my fancy new ‘Customer Care’ card. This is one of those little keychain dealies that they scan before you pay, and you get cash back or credit or Oprah-brand suppositories or something in return. Theoretically.
Of course, if all you buy is granola bars and drinks, you don’t see the instant savings, so much. But that’s okay, says the cashier. Your receipt contains another bar code, which you can bring back and have scanned next time for a buck off. Simple. Just keep the receipt and bring it back next time.
Right. Keep track of a drug store receipt for more than twelve seconds. And then remember where you put it, find it, and carry it back the next time you need a snack or soda. Like that’s going to happen. These receipts are like single socks in the dryer; they just *poof!* into thin air when you’re not looking. I’m lucky enough to leave the house or the office with my keys, wallet and pants in the right places — now you’re asking me to manage little bits of paper, too? I’m not seeing it.
So I guess that ‘customer care’ plan isn’t going to do me a hell of a lot of good at CVS. Unless I start spending more money at the register to get the instant cash back. Maybe next time, I’ll walk past the Odwalla bars — finally — and pick up a case of those Oprah pills and three copies of Cosmo. I’ve got no use for any of that stuff… but the savings are through the roof. Customer care, indeed.
Permalink | 3 Comments
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
