Since I started training for triathlon, I’ve developed an unusual obsession of assigning real life events values that are equivalent to my workouts. Today was a prime example.
I had to return an HDMI cable for my Apple TV to Kmart (Yes, they are still around) and I’m not sure I can explain the physiological toll it took on me. The mere thought of wading through this challenge was so stressful I contemplated whether or not even needed Apple TV in the first place.
Simply going to Kmart is about as heart wrenching as organizing your bike gear, filling water bottles, and driving 30 minutes to Natchez Trace to ride. The difference being, the scenery at Kmart doesn’t take your mind off the pain.
Kmart’s are so run down that chaos pours into the parking lot and any sort of flow or order is thrown to the wolves. I played the game by driving up the wrong lane and backing into my stall for a quick exit.
I stormed straight to the counter and delivered a romantic eye to the overweight lady wearing an untucked pink polo. She responded to my advance by turning around to lean on the back shelf. I was perplexed.
Normally my charm can sweep away a customer service representative, but today I was struggling. After 30 seconds, she turned to face me with deep breaths that were more in line with the last minutes of life than pre-orgasm. Her eyes turned inward as she fought to remain calm. I asked if she was alright.
“Yes, forgive me. I just walked up here from the back of the store and I’m out of breath.”
Now, Kmart’s are decent sized stores, but they’re no Walmart. She was out of breath from walking across the store? I mean, my calves are killing me, but her plight was certainly more urgent.
I said, “No worries,” though I was extremely concerned as she directed me to the back of the store to get the cable I wanted in exchange. I playfully asked, “if she would mind getting it for me?” and let me tell you, that did not go over well.
When I returned to my breathless love, she was helping a fragile old lady while simultaneously yelling at a guy on a scooter. Then she cursed her cash register, “Oh, don’t do this to me or I’ll throw you into the parking lot!”
All of this felt like the equivalent of the first 12 miles on Natchez Trace. A challenging warm up to my day. Still tight, but starting to come alive.
In all seriousness, I did feel for her. I just can’t imagine how difficult it must be to turn around your health so late in life, especially when you’ve spent the last 30 years neglecting yourself. But the body is a remarkable machine and some short term pain goes a long ways.
After an enlightening wait I secured my exchange and left through the in-door, where I almost got run over by another scooter guy having a conversation with the two newspaper-selling Shriners. (What is it with these newspapers??)
“That’s quite a scooter,” said Shriner guy 1.
“Pretty slick,” said the other in a mildly creepy manner.
“Yeah, but it’s so damn slow I can walk faster. I probably don’t need it,” said the man riding the scooter.
Exchanges like this do two things to me: They excite me beyond belief because of their absurdity, and they really make me wonder what the hell is going on in this world.
By the time I got back to the car I had mentally logged 10 more hilly miles on the Trace. It was a rough ride with a couple tempo explosions that raised my pulse. In all, I think my work for the day is done — and there will be little to no more guilt about my general level of exercise.