Now I Know Who I Look Like
If you are old enough to have watched The Carol Burnett Show, you might remember a recurring character played by series regular Tim Conway: the white-haired (or -wigged) old man whose painfully slow gait was always at odds with his arms, which he rapidly chugged like the axles of a freight train. It was as if the top half of his body was running the 50-yard dash while the bottom half was trudging through quicksand. The combination never failed to crack me up.
I have to say that for the past week or so, I've felt a lot like Conway's old man. Most of me has the energy and motivation to leap up from the couch, the bed, or the chair, but my knees and toes seem to be made of cement that has almost—but not quite—set. I can move them, but only with great effort and not a little bit of pain. The first few steps are wince-inducing, and after that I typically have enough momentum to continue. But every time I stop moving for more than a few minutes, the whole process starts all over again.
The last time I remember feeling anything like this was six years ago, when I was arm-twisted into going on my very first hike. I had protested again and again that I was not in shape and, furthermore, that I was a New Yorker and therefore not cut out for hiking. (This was during our stint in the Bay Area, where, it seemed, everyone hiked. Or biked. Or camped. Or kayaked. Or all of the above.) My arm-twister (aka my boss's boss) pointed out that I was young and thin (younger and thinner than he was, at least) and that on those grounds alone I ought to have no problem with the hike, which was part of a work outing and which he happened to be leading.
So I went.
I climbed steep hills.
I walked down seemingly endless switchbacks.
I crossed vertigo-inducing ledges without looking down.
I traversed rocky terrain without breaking an ankle.
And, 9.1 miles later, I walked off the trail, unaided. I didn't finish dead last, but I was pretty close.
That was on a Saturday. When I arrived at work on Monday morning, I could barely move. Every muscle in the lower half of my body ached. Walking in some kind of slow motion down the halls of the office, I looked like my own private special effect.
When my boss's boss caught sight of me, he could barely stop laughing long enough to say, "When you said you were out of shape, you really weren't kidding, were you?"
No. No, I wasn't kidding.
So please believe me when I say that I'm now walking like Tim Conway's old man.
But only from the waist down. I don't even have the energy to chug my arms. <sigh>
I have to say that for the past week or so, I've felt a lot like Conway's old man. Most of me has the energy and motivation to leap up from the couch, the bed, or the chair, but my knees and toes seem to be made of cement that has almost—but not quite—set. I can move them, but only with great effort and not a little bit of pain. The first few steps are wince-inducing, and after that I typically have enough momentum to continue. But every time I stop moving for more than a few minutes, the whole process starts all over again.
The last time I remember feeling anything like this was six years ago, when I was arm-twisted into going on my very first hike. I had protested again and again that I was not in shape and, furthermore, that I was a New Yorker and therefore not cut out for hiking. (This was during our stint in the Bay Area, where, it seemed, everyone hiked. Or biked. Or camped. Or kayaked. Or all of the above.) My arm-twister (aka my boss's boss) pointed out that I was young and thin (younger and thinner than he was, at least) and that on those grounds alone I ought to have no problem with the hike, which was part of a work outing and which he happened to be leading.
So I went.
I climbed steep hills.
I walked down seemingly endless switchbacks.
I crossed vertigo-inducing ledges without looking down.
I traversed rocky terrain without breaking an ankle.
And, 9.1 miles later, I walked off the trail, unaided. I didn't finish dead last, but I was pretty close.
That was on a Saturday. When I arrived at work on Monday morning, I could barely move. Every muscle in the lower half of my body ached. Walking in some kind of slow motion down the halls of the office, I looked like my own private special effect.
When my boss's boss caught sight of me, he could barely stop laughing long enough to say, "When you said you were out of shape, you really weren't kidding, were you?"
No. No, I wasn't kidding.
So please believe me when I say that I'm now walking like Tim Conway's old man.
But only from the waist down. I don't even have the energy to chug my arms. <sigh>
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 8:36 PM
2 Comments:
Oh Jody! I just read the last five or 6 blogs. I know you made the right call not to make that security guard feel like the Philistine he was, but-- OOOHHHH reading it-- I just wanted you to stick it to him! But you chose mercy and grace instead. Good for you.
I do remember the Carol Burnett show, but I don't remember the Tom Conway old man character--rats! It sounds like it was a lot of fun to watch, but a real drag to
experience.
I hope you guys had a great time out west---wish I could have seen a picture of you that night out to dinner. Foxy Lady!
-Christine :)
Jody --
Extra credit for the Tim Conway reference! I have fond memories of his old man character, along with "Mr. Tudball" who was always having problems with Carol Burnett's Mrs. Wiggins. Christine simply shows her (relatively young) age in not remembering the character. Here's hoping you upgrade to Harvey Korman in the very near future ...
gsc
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