Appropriation

Every day before we go out into the world, we stand naked in our bedrooms and make choices. Most times we put no more mindfulness into these choices than “gotta get dressed.” but because our clothing choices are the most visible aspect of our appearance, they define us perhaps more than we’d wish .

The shoes are New Balance. The half-socks are Hanes, as are the briefs. My shorts are Spaulding. The shirt is UnderArmour. The water bottle is SubZero. The phone is an ancient Treo and the MP3 is an ancient but serviceable iRiver.

I am good to go. I am a walking billboard for other people’s brands.

Except for the hat. Sorry Toyota, but it’s my brand now. It is no longer stands for a large, richly-appointed gas-guzzler. It means something more pedestrian.

It is me. It is mine. I have appropriated the logo and words to stand for my own decisions and behaviors. I am the Land Rover.

I began roving about seven years ago when I was 80 pounds heavier, hypertensive and had HBA1c values in the high 7’s. A diabetic son of diabetic parents. My last six HBA1c levels have been in the low, mid 5’s. This is accomplished by my near daily ritual and smart(er) food choices. I am no paragon of virtue. But I am a bit better than I was before.

It's good to have a vision. I told my physician and diet therapist that mine is of a spry 90 year old stepping into a canoe with my grandkids. These health advisors helped lay out a lifestyle that would bring me to that goal.

I had and have to make the “micro-decisions” necessary to reach it.
“Just do it.”

I used to say that I didn’t have time to make these commitments. That they were unfair. That evolutionary biology was stacked against me. Boo frickin hoo. The time of feeling sorry is past. I have too much roving left to do.

I'm not a huge fan of ballcaps, but you can't exactly go strolling in 90 degree heat in a Stetson. Maybe that's why those Texas politicians are all so … nevermind!

I am my cap. I am branded. There are many like it, but this brand is mine. It's sweet when that happens.

Take a hike!

Baby Steps-A religious walker recovers from knee surgery

When I first started to write this I was 5 days post-arthroscopy. In late March I'd come downstairs in the wee hours of the morning, head half-fogged by sleepiness and the fugue calculus of character arc for a short story I'd been working on. I needed a glass of water before bed. In my reverie I missed the last step on our ancient stairs and ended up on my ass with my left leg twisted under me. It didn't feel great but after a quick self-assessment, assuring myself I'd been careless, but had broken nothing or had done no permanent damage, I rose gingerly, shook it off and continued my walking regimen in the days that followed. After each workout, I typically paid a little in pain premium the next day but I didn't think much of it. With exercise, once I got going, my reliable endorphins kicked in and I'd be fine.

Then three weeks later in April came "the afternoon of the big backpack." Typically I meet my youngest son after school two to three days a week. We walk the 2.5 miles home and I shoulder his 18 pound backpack, brimming with textbooks. I have strong concerns about a 10 year old back shouldering that kind of weight, so I cheerfully relieve him of it. That night I was a bit more ginger than usual.

The next day, when I awoke, I could barely walk.