Busload of Pride

I missed my bus today.

That in itself is not a significant event. (Although it bothers me that if I had left my apartment building one minute earlier I would not have missed it.) Rather, what my missing the bus today represents is of more significance.

I might have made it . . . if I had run. I chose not to run. Not because I am unable to run. Not because I was too exhausted to run. Not because I knew another bus would get me to work on time (I was a tiny bit late to work this morning). But rather, because of pride.

Now, when I see people running for the bus, I do not think less of them. In fact, I am rather sympathetic in a removed sort of way. I do not pity them, but a mental “bummers,” comes to mind and then my brain is off to another topic.

Running for the bus is not beneath me. If it was my first day at work, I would have run (at least I think I would). If I had a meeting and by missing that bus I knew I would be late, I would have run.

For some reason, I would feel embarrassed and odd if I ran to the bus and boarded it out-of-breath and knowing that people in the bus probably saw me running. Even worse than that would be if I had run and the bus had taken off without me. I would have run in vain. Yet, it is not the expended effort with no reward that troubles me. It bothers me that people would have seen me run and the bus leave without me.

Part of the problem is that I “know” these people. Not like their names or their trials and tribulations, but in the way you “know” people that you see often, but never interact with. Like, if you go to the same neighborhood venue a lot, you will often see, but not speak with many of the same people. At the bus stop, there is usually middle-aged glasses guy, Wisteria lady, girl my age, mom and daughter, tall Japanese lady, young blonde guy, gay bag guy, etc. I see these people (usually) five days a week. I would always be the person running for the bus as it drove away.

I realize that I am giving this a lot more thought than anyone in the bus would. Perhaps they would not even notice that I ran for the bus, much less remember me. Still, something within me stopped me from running. I thought about running, then immediately dismissed it.

As I was walking toward the bus stop, an older lady waved her arms to the bus driver indicating she wanted him to wait as she slowly waddled to the bus. At this point I was sure that if I walked quickly, I would have made it. I started to, but as I put my hand in my sweater pocket, I realized I could not feel my bus pass. I immediately slowed down and went to sit at the bus stop. By the time I fished around in my pocket and found the bus pass, I still had time to make the bus, but I was already sitting down.

I remained seated. The bus doors closed and the bus roared away. I sat there thinking I must be an idiot or incredibly vain. I did not rule out a combination of the two. I still have not.

I would rather think it was a passive-aggressive move to avoid going to work, than to believe I am that vain. Or lazy. I can live with lazy. But vain? I think my pride is a bigger problem for me than even I realize. It is probably the most influential thing keeping me from pleasing God, too. I mean, there are a myriad of things, but my pride is obviously the largest of the stumbling blocks.

It is strange, because I do not think of myself as a prideful person. For example, when going out in public, my standard is try to be as clean as possible under the circumstances. I occasionally use hairspray, but I do not wear make-up and have no real fashion sense (No stains on my blouse? I’m good to go!) I do not feel I embarrass easier than the average person. I do not think I go around singing my own praises, although others may disagree.

But, I guess there is a difference between a boastful pride and a more subverted, less obvious pride. The second type is probably more insidious because it can be hidden not only from others, but from yourself as well.

I goeth before the fall? Better make sure I’m not walking in front of you.

Now that’s prideful!

*Hmph!*

I am annoyed. I am irritated. I want to roll my eyes, but I am a tiny bit concerned that my eyes will get stuck that way, thus changing my field of vision forever. I imagine myself constantly tripping over things on the ground, because I am unable to see them. That would be even more annoying. But I digress.

Why am I annoyed? Irritated? Valiantly trying not to roll my eyes?

Well, you know the answer to the last question. But as to the first two . . . does it really matter? Are you truly interested to know why I am annoyed? By my writing this, are you becoming annoyed when you previously were not? Have I served to spread my annoyance like an air-borne computer virus?

Perhaps you are now trying valiantly not to roll your eyes. If you do not have the fortitude to control yourself, do not blame me if they get stuck that way. I explained why it might be dangerous. Are you, at this moment having to tuck your chin into your neck to continue to read this drivel? Or have you already given up and I am writing into empty space (as empty as it can be with all these words all over it).

If I write it and nobody reads it, have I written anything at all? Like the tree falling in the forest or the one hand clapping. Such are the deep, philosophical questions of our day. Frankly, pondering all this is giving me a headache.

Now, I’m really annoyed.

Exercising for Dummies

Recently, several friends shared that they have begun exercising regularly. I guess my friends and I are at the age when regular exercise becomes more of a “must” instead of an “it’ll be nice if I can find the time” type of activity.

One friend said her husband used to exercise three days a week, but once he increased to five days a week, he managed to lower his cholesterol. Another friend said she walks around her neighborhood a couple of times a week and that if she misses too many days, she is really able to feel the difference. She feels “so much better” when she walks and “sluggish” when she does not. Another friend does two cardio classes a week at the gym, plus other exercising and yoga on top of that. She too, insists exercising makes her feel noticeably better.

Well, taking stories like these to heart, as well as a heavily suggestive conversation with my doctor about the glorious benefits of regular exercise, I have been brainwashed and bullied into exercising regularly. For about a month, I have been exercising about 30-minutes five times a week. Thirty continuous minutes, mind you. Not five minutes of walking here and there, but actually following an exercise DVD.

I do not feel different. If I skip a day or two, I do not miss the exercise, nor do I feel sluggish. I do not feel more energetic. My clothes do not fit better. I get no endorphin “high.” I am beginning to think I have been fooled. Bamboozled. Had.

Now, I did not expect results immediately, although that would have been nice. I have been at this for over a month. Shouldn’t I see or experience some beneficial gain by now?

I am hanging on by a thread, telling myself that while my outside may not show an improvement, surely my insides are reaping the benefits. I do not know if this is true . . . I guess I will have to wait until I go back to the doctor or take lab tests or whatever. In the meantime, I will continue trying to convince myself that exercising is good.

Will this exercise kick last or will I soon revert to my couch potato ways? Perhaps some of us just were not meant to be exercise enthusiasts. Or maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe I need to see it as a challenge. I need to be stubborn and dig my heels in (I am rather good at that). Play to my strengths, so to speak.

I don’t need no stinkin’ results. I don’t need to “feel good.” I will continue to subject myself to this thing called “regular exercise,” because no one and no thing will tell me otherwise. I can stop any time I want to . . . I just don’t want to.

Not much of a pep talk, I know. Unfortunately, that’s the best that I have right now.

We shall see, honeybee . . . we shall see.