I can not exercise. Not do not wish to exercise. That is normal, my usual state. No, I can not exercise. Even if I wanted to, I could not. What happened, I fell down some stairs a couple of weeks ago, rather like the guy in the picture, suffered some bent bones, a teeny concussion, and of course caused my loved ones grief and worry. Now my brain is back to a muted normal (my kids say I have traded up, mentally) and I can sit at a computer and tap away. But I can not bend over. Can not pull or push myself up. Can not run ten miles - or one mile - or a block.
And so I live a sedentary life, hobbling from my desk to the coffee pot to the dining-room table, and will continue to do so for a few weeks while my ribs and shoulder heal up. It is as though I have found an extra couple hours in my day. Time that I used to spend thinking about exercise (not doing any, you understand -- just thinking about it) is now wide open. A gift from the God of I don't know, what do you want to do? Last year, last month I would spend an hour thinking, I should go to the YMCA and then pour myself a cup of coffee and read a manuscript instead. And feel bad. Today there is no instead. I can not go not go the YMCA. So -- and this is my final thought for today on the subject, something for my therapist if I ever find one -- why do I still feel guilty about not exercising?