I somehow have assumed the role of Exercise Czar in my family. I nag, cajole, and coax my husband into regular exercise regiments. I seem to have anointed myself the omniscient judge of what constitutes exercise. Like a virtual Ouija Board or crystal ball, I answer, “Yes, sweeping counts as exercise.” Or “No, ambling doesn’t count.”
We were vacationing in Chicago this summer where our son, daughter in law and two grand-dogs reside. The day we flew in we drove to Millennium Park where we rendezvoused with my son. David is a psychologist whose entire day is segmented into 50 minute blocks of time. Our reunion consisted of a quick kiss, a “Mom will you buy me a sandwich?” and a “Come back in 50 minutes for a 10 minute visit.” We spent the better part of 2 hours hustling back and forth to 8 S. Michigan Avenue for the privilege of spending 20 minutes of quality time. (It was well worth it ).
Once I was assured my 31 year old had sufficient sustenance, we walked down the street to the Art Institute to see a Rene Magritte special exhibition. Following a two hour tour, coupled with our 2 hours of hustling from parking garage to lunch spots to offices, I looked at my husband and said, “I think this counts as exercise”.