Diary Tuesday:
Exercise and the Ghost of My Father Enjoys Pears
So I started using my apartment complex's exercise a few days ago and noticed that the residents here aren't much for cardio. When I went to college I couldn't compete with the girls who probably had serious body issues and the students who did regular sports. I usually felt like the most lackluster of those populating the fitness room. I would often arrive to see a person exercise, then exercise for an hour, and leave to see them still exercising.
However, when I started going to the exercise room here I was shocked to see several people devote only about ten minutes to the treadmill, if that, and then maybe a few minutes on the bike. Plus, I outlast everyone. True, some of them may select higher speeds on the treadmill, but the same was true for college and I rarely outlasted anyone. I'd like to think this means I've simply become a thing of steel. But since the time differential is undeniable, and the reason I started exercising is because I was beginning to feel like the exact opposite of steel, I doubt this.
While I was exercising today an older Asian man came in. He didn't outlast me but I thought he might for a while and it made me think of how active my own father was, who had also been one of those older Asian men who clearly grew up sleeping on tatami mats. I had originally been watching whatever struck my fancy on the fitness room TV but finally settled on the news. I knew nothing about this particular Asian man's preferences but I knew my father would have preferred the news. It was rather boring, they talked about a gas leak and I can't even recall what else. They also talked about a truck of pears overturning. Thrilling.
But a part of me heard my father's voice when I saw those pears on the street. "Ah! So many pear." It would have been the type of thing that would amuse him and he would comment on.
It's been more than a year now since my father passed away, but only a couple of months since I had one of my uncontrollable and unpredictable bouts of crying because of it. Usually in front of someone to increase embarrassment. It's not that people aren't lovely and understanding, but I just hate crying in front of them. Still, mostly I'm fine. Or at least, as close to fine as one can be about this. What really bothers me is how the simple mention of my father to someone who knows he's dead brings the conversation to an awkward halt. It's gotten to the point where I often don't even tell people he's passed away if I can avoid it simply so I can still talk about him. Because I loved talking about him and I still do.
Exercise and the Ghost of My Father Enjoys Pears
So I started using my apartment complex's exercise a few days ago and noticed that the residents here aren't much for cardio. When I went to college I couldn't compete with the girls who probably had serious body issues and the students who did regular sports. I usually felt like the most lackluster of those populating the fitness room. I would often arrive to see a person exercise, then exercise for an hour, and leave to see them still exercising.
However, when I started going to the exercise room here I was shocked to see several people devote only about ten minutes to the treadmill, if that, and then maybe a few minutes on the bike. Plus, I outlast everyone. True, some of them may select higher speeds on the treadmill, but the same was true for college and I rarely outlasted anyone. I'd like to think this means I've simply become a thing of steel. But since the time differential is undeniable, and the reason I started exercising is because I was beginning to feel like the exact opposite of steel, I doubt this.
While I was exercising today an older Asian man came in. He didn't outlast me but I thought he might for a while and it made me think of how active my own father was, who had also been one of those older Asian men who clearly grew up sleeping on tatami mats. I had originally been watching whatever struck my fancy on the fitness room TV but finally settled on the news. I knew nothing about this particular Asian man's preferences but I knew my father would have preferred the news. It was rather boring, they talked about a gas leak and I can't even recall what else. They also talked about a truck of pears overturning. Thrilling.
But a part of me heard my father's voice when I saw those pears on the street. "Ah! So many pear." It would have been the type of thing that would amuse him and he would comment on.
It's been more than a year now since my father passed away, but only a couple of months since I had one of my uncontrollable and unpredictable bouts of crying because of it. Usually in front of someone to increase embarrassment. It's not that people aren't lovely and understanding, but I just hate crying in front of them. Still, mostly I'm fine. Or at least, as close to fine as one can be about this. What really bothers me is how the simple mention of my father to someone who knows he's dead brings the conversation to an awkward halt. It's gotten to the point where I often don't even tell people he's passed away if I can avoid it simply so I can still talk about him. Because I loved talking about him and I still do.
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