Revisiting the ghosts of old wrongs

At the time I was writing this particular column Tuesday afternoon, my husband was probably knee-deep in nurses.
Err, let me re-phrase that.
At the time I was writing this particular column Tuesday afternoon, my husband was probably knee-deep in stress-related sweating on a treadmill somewhere in Thunder Bay—and thinking of me.
My middle-aged super hero, my Mr. Incredible, who undoubtedly at that moment was empathizing with the red-suited cartoon character who realized he no longer had the body of young Swedish boy after his retirement from fighting the forces of evil—and thinking of me.
And when the doctor asked Mr. Incredible to lie down on his stomach and raise his knee caps and feet off the floor for more than five seconds, I can guarantee you he was thinking of me.
I know this for sure because of each successive call made to Mrs. Know-It-All via cell phone from the city by the Sleeping Giant at every possible break in the routine, whereby he lamented to me the hauntings of the ghosts of old wrongs.
These old wrongs—no daily exercise, smoking, and a larger than life appetite—were revisiting him at every level of bodily function being tested, poked, pushed, prodded, and measured.
He was thinking of me because, once again, I was right. The best-laid plans of a healthy man lifestyle started a month-and-a-half ago on Jan. 1, honey. Do the math.
And no, when they said “Life begins at 40,” they didn’t mean 40 days after you decide to up the ante on your health.
The truth is, most of us humans who love food, couches, and vices have been there and done that. And even though I reaffirm with myself every morning that I will do what it takes to maintain this machine of mine, I’m still known to walk out the door, get in the truck, and go to the doughnut shop.
When this “Gi-normous” unexpected visitor called a “physical exam” was sprung by the work-related powers that be a week ago, Mr. Incredible also quit smoking, which is never a bad thing, right?
But cold turkey? As much as I love you, honey, I’m very thankful you are tucked away in a hotel room some 360 km away when you pitch a fit and turn into Mr. Hyde.
But I will be right here waiting for you with my hands outstretched to rub those sore and aching calf muscles used for the very first time in what I’m sure you will agree was the longest 10-minute jog in the history of mankind.
I’ll also be right here waiting for you to give me my cell phone back, and your travel bag which, if I don’t deal with it, will sit unpacked on the floor on your side of the bed until the next time you have to do this sort of thing in 2010.
And just in case you forgot, I’ll also be right here with my arms outstretched to give you a big hug and tell you I love you Valentine—my middle-aged super hero, my Mr. Incredible, who, after all, really does have the body of a young Swedish boy.
P.S. Where’s my box of chocolates?

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