Uphill, all the way

Dear You,

The Fitness Center here is indeed a "clean, well-lighted place," full of marvelous machines, neatly stacked weights, carpeted floors and -- lest we forget reality altogether -- a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I spend these months in an age-restricted community; that means I don't mingle with very many people who have lived less than a half-century on the planet already, certainly I see none here this morning.

For awhile I walk the treadmill. If I press one button, I walk faster -- another, and I walk "uphill," although the view doesn't change -- I'm still staring at the big flat-screen television that hangs a few feet ahead and above me. That task complete, I do the circuit: a series of eleven cleverly designed machines that strains different parts of the body and in a scientific, orderly way. Each machine is a marvel of red plastic padding and stainless steel, with a variety of adjustments that tasks one's cleverness. When I am done, I see that I am back where I started. On to the rowing machine. Sit in the little bucket seat, hook feet into the straps, grab the "oar" and pull, pull, pull. Lots of motion, but again the scenery hasn't changed.

In my quixotic quest to regain the silhouette I lost long ago, I really am going nowhere. And I don't need to look into the mirrors to know that.