Ridin' that Hill

The humid heat envelopes me like a blanket as I step outside. It's early but the dog needs the yard. The heavy air is hard on me. Its turgid density flows like molasses into my lungs. My poor joints fight against the gravity and the pain of it, burning like a fever. I'm not that old and I have a lot to do, but my body is saying otherwise. I should go to the gym but can't imagine dragging myself up any more hills. The grocery store is hill enough. 

I remember events where the Holy Spirit whispered to me not to eat that bite, that snack, that serving. I didn't imagine one little bite or serving would matter. But when it happens a thousand times, it becomes a truckload. You can't burn a whole shipment off your butt when you're preoccupied with lots of life. You have to purpose to either chip it off along the way or avoid it altogether. Because one day you wake up and the proverbial elephant in the room is no longer proverbial. Sorry, but that's funny right there.

Nobody plans on getting old, but you do. Nobody plans on wrecking their health, but it happens. I've seen people spend their life obsessing about it, fussing and never being able to enjoy anything. They live like emotional paupers, plagued with rules and the vinegar of worry. Then there are those (like me) who live life in the wind like there's no tomorrow. Our worries come later, when everything's used up and thrown under the bus. Somehow there has to be a happy medium, but I've yet to find it. Because I didn't at least chip away at the excess, now I'm having to use dynamite. 

So I find myself on the porch, the dog gleefully spinning circles with the cat on the lawn. The birds are shrieking with joy, the fig tree has decided to triple itself and is dripping with fruit, and the fish in the pond are doing backflips in the water hyacinths. But the thick summer heat is not doing me any favors and Southern Living is lying about all the parties we're supposed to be having. Don't kid yourself. Nobody's having soirees with darling party lights, watermelon and barbecue out on the lawn, at least not until Thanksgiving. I sound like the Grinch and I'm looking sorta like Jabba the Hut. Since Fitbit is telling me I'm only eating 1500 calories a day but using up 2500 calories, you'd think the deficit would kick in. Apparently I've got to get out the dynamite. And probably get on my bike. 

So if you see a fat (but hey, pretty) lady pedaling about on a bike in Villa Rica, please don't hit her with your car or crack mean jokes. And don't shoot me if I ride on the sidewalk. That's a whole lot more fun than pushing tires or climbing fake stairs, though I humbly respect all those women I see doing that. I'm just trying to find my inner ten-year-old before she gives way to that fossil that's trying to take over her body. Lord have mercy.