Wired
The other day (probably last Friday, July 8, 2011) I was quietly cranking away on one of the cardiovascular trainers in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym.
Not one of their many “cardio-theaters,” that is, a cardiovascular trainer with a TV monitor on it, for watching CNN or SportsChannel or people making complete fools of themselves on “Price is Right.”
Bonkers over an all-expenses paid vacation in sunny Borneo.
Fly there 6-10 hours in a cramped coach-seat.
Next to me was a big girl in her early 20s, perhaps an FLCC student, madly blasting another cardiovascular trainer.
I exercise at a more relaxed pace, which gets my heart-rate up to the maximum for someone my age (67), 126 beats per minute.
I’ve seen it as high as 133, although on average it goes no higher than 125.
This young girl was capable of 150+, going like the dickens.
A young blond Adonis strode up to chew the fat.
Playful banter ensued, all at the speed of light I can no longer attain since having a stroke.
Often I have to ask people to slow down because I can’t follow what they’re saying.
“I hate this thing,” Adonis said. “Not like running at all.”
“Not if you set the resistance up,” the girl snapped.
“25 minutes to go,” the girl said.
Sweat was pouring off her tawny shoulders.
She was doing an hour. I do two 35-minute sessions.
The girl was fully wired.
Her sweat-stained iPod was on the cardio display, and an ear-bud was in her ear.
“BOOM-chicka-BOOM-chicka-BOOM-chicka-BOOM-chicka!”
I could hear it myself — no wonder people lose their hearing.
All-of-a-sudden “Dant, da-da-dyah-dyah; dant, da-da-dyah-dyah; dant, da-da-dyah-dyah; dant, da-da-dyahhhhhh!
The “Ride of the Valkyries,” electronically synthesized.
(If my cell phone ever did that, I’d stomp it.)
The girl had her cellphone, a pink-encased Smartphone.
“Hello,” the girl said tentatively.
“No, I’m at the YMCA, 20 minutes to go on this elliptical.
I’ll text ya when I’m done.”
The cellphones of my wife and I aren’t even text-enabled.
We’re told that’s because we’re geezers, but in our case it’s because we feel we don’t have need for it.
If we did, we’d have it.
Like we have cellphones, and are told by some people — usually geezers — cellphones are abhorrent and of-the-Devil.
I also feel texting is a straight-jacket; that I could say more than a text could deliver.
I can’t imagine carrying on a discussion via text.
“I’m done” is a viable verbal exchange?
Where’s the meaning? Where’s the nuance?
Things that just get in the way of the Facebook/Tweet generation.
Maybe I should enable text and text my dog a cellular “bark!”
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 15 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• “FLCC” is Finger Lakes Community College, the community college in Canandaigua. (The Finger Lakes are a series of north-south lakes in Central New York that look like the imprint of a large hand. The were formed by the receding glacier.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s six, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't too bad.)
Not one of their many “cardio-theaters,” that is, a cardiovascular trainer with a TV monitor on it, for watching CNN or SportsChannel or people making complete fools of themselves on “Price is Right.”
Bonkers over an all-expenses paid vacation in sunny Borneo.
Fly there 6-10 hours in a cramped coach-seat.
Next to me was a big girl in her early 20s, perhaps an FLCC student, madly blasting another cardiovascular trainer.
I exercise at a more relaxed pace, which gets my heart-rate up to the maximum for someone my age (67), 126 beats per minute.
I’ve seen it as high as 133, although on average it goes no higher than 125.
This young girl was capable of 150+, going like the dickens.
A young blond Adonis strode up to chew the fat.
Playful banter ensued, all at the speed of light I can no longer attain since having a stroke.
Often I have to ask people to slow down because I can’t follow what they’re saying.
“I hate this thing,” Adonis said. “Not like running at all.”
“Not if you set the resistance up,” the girl snapped.
“25 minutes to go,” the girl said.
Sweat was pouring off her tawny shoulders.
She was doing an hour. I do two 35-minute sessions.
The girl was fully wired.
Her sweat-stained iPod was on the cardio display, and an ear-bud was in her ear.
“BOOM-chicka-BOOM-chicka-BOOM-chicka-BOOM-chicka!”
I could hear it myself — no wonder people lose their hearing.
All-of-a-sudden “Dant, da-da-dyah-dyah; dant, da-da-dyah-dyah; dant, da-da-dyah-dyah; dant, da-da-dyahhhhhh!
The “Ride of the Valkyries,” electronically synthesized.
(If my cell phone ever did that, I’d stomp it.)
The girl had her cellphone, a pink-encased Smartphone.
“Hello,” the girl said tentatively.
“No, I’m at the YMCA, 20 minutes to go on this elliptical.
I’ll text ya when I’m done.”
The cellphones of my wife and I aren’t even text-enabled.
We’re told that’s because we’re geezers, but in our case it’s because we feel we don’t have need for it.
If we did, we’d have it.
Like we have cellphones, and are told by some people — usually geezers — cellphones are abhorrent and of-the-Devil.
I also feel texting is a straight-jacket; that I could say more than a text could deliver.
I can’t imagine carrying on a discussion via text.
“I’m done” is a viable verbal exchange?
Where’s the meaning? Where’s the nuance?
Things that just get in the way of the Facebook/Tweet generation.
Maybe I should enable text and text my dog a cellular “bark!”
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 15 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• “FLCC” is Finger Lakes Community College, the community college in Canandaigua. (The Finger Lakes are a series of north-south lakes in Central New York that look like the imprint of a large hand. The were formed by the receding glacier.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s six, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't too bad.)
posted by BobbaLew at 12:15 PM
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