Kerrie Ann Frey

With both of us working and having three children to maneuver through the world, our conversations have been reduced to twitter-like snippets before we start the bedtime routine. Not that my husband John and I have ever been ones to delve deeply into moody discourses on, well, anything. We are too different to do that. He’s a Republican. I’m Independent. He’s from the South. I’m more Southern than Northern now, but you can still here that flat “a” when I say, “Gap”. My profession requires me to move constantly, to stay fit and to motivate others to find joy in exercise. In John’s job, it is mandatory to sit in his chair, blankly staring at a computer monitor, with a trace of drool dotting the corner of his mouth. He is a programmer. I am convinced they strap themselves in for the day and are let free for potty, lunch and the drive home. Somehow our marriage works, with minimum finger-pointing and sniggering.

John is coming up on a big birthday. I’m hoping he sees turning forty as an opportunity to start living some healthful habits, if not for himself, then for his kids. I have visions of him waking up early to go for a quick run before eating his Kashi and driving to work in a hybrid car. Since this is such a lovely dream, I’m throwing in the new Donald Pliner pumps for me and an island Christmas vacation for the family. Dream big.

For his birthday, I’m going to charter an off-shore fishing trip for him. He’ll love it. I’m also getting him a treadmill. He’ll love it as much as he’d love a root canal. Sans drugs. This treadmill is the last frontier of exercise for John. I have encouraged him to get back to playing tennis and he, sounding like my kids, “Has no one to play with.” DVDs, a health club membership, a MALE trainer because, apparently, he cannot train with me. I’ve tried them all. There is a laundry room full of gym-quality free weights that are begging him to pick them up and give them some love. He claims they are not his size. After five years of virtually no exercise, he’s right. I don’t have his size. 2-lb weights can’t be found in the laundry room.

I’m getting bitter.

So, along with the trip, he’s going to get on the treadmill. He will be able to out push-up me and he will run the Crescent City Classic with me come Easter. Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not a shrew (most of the time), I just happen to know his family health history. Alphabetically, it starts with Brain Cancer and roams on down through every other Cancer imaginable. It is sprinkled liberally with obesity, high blood pressure and gastro-intestinal issues. Clearly we cannot cure these diseases with a trot on the treadmill; however, it is a start. I’m sure the kids would like him around to see them get married. I’d like to have someone to share what’s left of our retirement funds.

The treadmill is my own personal Hail Mary pass. This is it. The beginning of the end of the game. He’s going to love the fishing trip. I can’t say that about the treadmill, but with the good comes the bad. And of course, I’ll feel like the bad guy showing up with exercise equipment, but what else can you do? Like holiday dinners at the in-laws, it’s one of the things you do for love.