Much to my horror, my teenage daughter suggested the two of us get a gym membership so that we could exercise together on Friday nights. My mouth dried up and my heart skipped a beat as I would rather spend my Friday evenings doing almost anything other than pointless and boring physical workouts. Somehow managing to squeak a non-reply, hmmm, yes, great, maybe, let’s keep it in mind; I then gathered my wits and asked her what we would do at the gym, once there – on a Friday evening in the hopefully very, very distant future. She was not all too sure but mentioned running and I can only assume that this would involve a treadmill and not laps within the facility. Why my daughter would seek out more gym time is beyond me, at school she has two gym classes and one swim class per week in addition to playing handball and soccer which combined involve team practices every day of the week aside from Sunday. This I believe is more time than I spend smoking and drinking coffee weekly although I have never had reason to sum it up, till now.
Luckily she has not brought the subject back up and if my luck holds she has forgotten this completely, the mother daughter barbell bonding experience having been replaced with other things that occupy her mind at the moment, Robert Pattison for example. This semi-discussion did however make me look inward and wonder why this mere mention of physical fitness was so horrific to me. We have a good, solid and friendly relationship, spiced with the occasional teenage drama of the light variety, so the dread in no way involved my daughter. The closest thing to an explanation I could come up with was a memory I recall being the last time I stepped inside a gym, approximately fifteen years ago. At the time we were living in Montreal and the apartment building we lived in doubled as a hotel for those seeking a room for longer periods than the average tourist. The establishment had a small gym in the basement which I once reluctantly sought out with my husband after a lot of coaxing. Being pretty pleased with myself once down there, I managed to work up something that resembled a drop of perspiration on my forehead, although it evaporated before I managed to get my husband to witness the phenomenon. This feeling of accomplishment did not last very long however as my fragile physical ego imploded when we were joined by people staying in the hotel. These were gymnasts attending the Circque du Soleil circus school in Montreal and were as such capable of contortions my body could possibly be forced to achieve once dead, after rigor mortis has passed. Not wanting to display my feeble attempts at touching my toes in front of women standing on one leg while the other pointed straight up in the air, I left, towel wrapped around my neck, hoping to appear as having been there for hours on end – not minutes. The lesson learned? Why bother - if I need to point to the ceiling I will use my hand, both feet firmly planted on the ground as nature intended.
Another memory dusted off during this reflection was one where I sat with my grandfather watching the news. He was about 95 at the time and the news tidbit that interested him the most was one where the reporter was walking around inside the newest and most modern trawler just added to the Icelandic fishing fleet at the time. My grandfather was a fishing captain during his heyday and was of course interested in seeing what had changed since he left the scene. When the reporter stopped to admire the gym within the trawler my grandfather became silent and seemed to ponder if this was possibly a hoax. When he realised that it was no joke he shook his head and rolled his eyes – Who the hell is working these bungling idiots if they seek strenuous exercise at the end of a working day at sea? I would assume the only hard work fishermen and seamen were capable of when he was still sailing was to lift the covers off their beds, just high enough to slip under them and fall asleep. No lifting and hoisting of steel bars, stationary cycling or running required. Since on the topic of my grandfather, I must add that he died a little before he turned 101 years and on his 100th birthday he invited his older sister to the party. He never had a gym membership and spent his Friday nights much like his granddaughter – chilling. I am tempted to add another habit we had in common, but am afraid to come across as a Philip Morris spokesman so I will leave it be.
Putting all gaiety and futility aside, my heart goes out to all people of Haiti who have been hit by one of the most destructive forces of nature, one that is void of empathy and shows no mercy when crossing. It is atrocious to listen to the death toll estimates and even more so when you think about the figures that will shortly follow i.e. the numbers of those that have been hurt or maimed. Alltough it is of little solace to the grieving and hurt I assume the whole world is moved by this event and I for one will be doing what little I can as an individual to provide aid through the Red Cross collection currently being organised. May all good things come to pass in future for this small, impoverished and now grieving nation.
Yrsa - Wednesday
