Compare and Despair No More

Fitness news that doesn't bother me:  48 year old Boston woman on track to break a record for scaling the highest peak on each of the seven continents, plus the North and South Poles. She's way younger.  She's blond.  She has killer quads. She trains by striding along Revere Beach pulling a 50 pound truck tire behind her. Did I mention that she's way younger than me? Or that I don't much like extremes of cold or elevation? I wish her well.

FItness news that sends me hurtling into the morass of Compare and Despair: 85 year old competitive downhill skiers yukking it up on the slopes at minus 20 degrees, a friend's 81 year old mother who competes in triathlons, and John Whittemore who was shot-putting (and I don't mean shots of Jack Daniels) until the year of his death at 105.   I just want to lie down and reach for that box of Godiva chocolates I've been saving for an emergency.

I'm not an utter couch potato;  I've been saying for years "If you stop, you drop." But a triathlon? Can't run for the shin splints, fell off my bike the last time I rode it, never passed Beginner's Swimming because I wouldn't stick my head under water. You know that sadistic epigram:  no pain, no gain?  I say, "Hah!"  I say "Double Hah!"!  How about:  if there's pain, I'll refrain. Which leaves me with a regimen of trying to walk and chew gum at the same time and performing some random stretches.


But lately I've been seeing reports that makes me feel lots better about my level of fitness. Health gurus consistently recommend walking as the ideal exercise especially for the out of shape who want to get back into shape. Sounds ideal, doesn't it?  You don't need lessons, or a high-tech costume, or a membership in a ritzy health club. 

So why aren't parks and sidewalks and beaches jammed with happy wanderers? Why has SDS gone from being an old leftie group to a new disease: Sedentary Death Syndrome? Turns out  there are lots and lots of people out there--of all ages--who are too out of shape to even begin a walking program!  Read that sentence again.  Believe it or not, but that group of  does not include the disabled, the deformed, or the dead, only the ordinary unfit who can't walk across a room with gasping for breath.

Yes! This is shocking news, but at the same time heartening to contemplate.  There are millions of ordinary unfit Americans who couldn't begin to get themselves out of the way of even the slowest moving zombie. Millions who need a Segway to haul themselves into line at the Shake Shack.  Millions who will never need more footgear than the single pair of bunny slippers they wear while shuffling from the couch to the kitchen for refills on Cheetos, Ho-Ho's and Yoo-Hoo's during the commercial break on Cupcake Wars.

By those standards, I am 98th percentile in fitness!  I am competitive! I am an Olympian!  I could beat those cream puffs to the snack shelf without even breaking a sweat.  I could slam dunk those Doritos right out of their grasping claws. Compare and despair no more.

Race you to the refrigerator, sweetie! Last one there is zombie meat.

"Burning Man"?  Oh, we thought you said "Baking Man."

If Trouserville didn't already have enough proof that the world is going to hell in a hand basket, Googling for cupcake images provided sufficient evidence in and of itself.  Now I have to worry about what worries me more:  Cupcake Apocalypse  or Zombie Apocalypse?