Row, row, row your boat...

Today was a great day. Perfect start to any regular Tuesday morning. We started with kisses and hugs from a very handsome small Jack bear, who then was gracious enough to share his oatmeal with me, while we discussed the cinematic qualities of Elmo in Grouchland. We always do this, back and forth. I like the good guy, Elmo, while Jack feels empathy for the bad guy, Huxley. He's not so bad, Mama. He's just misunderstood (although it sounds more like this).

Anna: I like Elmo.
Jack: Go-guy. Hmmmmph (said while crossing his arms in an x over his heart...the sign for love).
Anna: You mean the bad guy Huxley?
Jack: No, go-guy (good guy). Cop-cop (translation = helicopter).
Anna: But he's mean. And he took Elmo's blanket.
Jack: Go-guy, cop-cop. Ya-ya (translation = Elmo). Hmmmph (loving them all).

Jack believes that people are essentially good.

I'd like to believe that too. Except for today. I believe I met the mean guy in the gym. Here I am, after lifting weights for an hour, ready to row for some cardio. I hop on my rowing machine and the old man next to me tells me it's broken. I have already attempted to start, but the chain is slack and rowing is impossible.

I move across the hallway to hop on another rower and I get started. When I row, the world disappears. I  am plugged into my iPod and jamming out to whatever pops up next while I row, row, row my imaginary boat down my imaginary stream of mindless work. Today it was something like this: Stinkfist (Tool), Why Go (Pearl Jam), Some Devil (Dave Matthews), Bulls on Parade (Rage) and on and on. I was working it. So here I am, some 3500 meters downstream and 20 minutes of my life exercised away, when upon standing, the old man from earlier motions me over to him.

I walk, dripping sweat, legs tight from my rowing, over to where he only for him to look at me with a grimace on his face and say "You really need to learn how to row correctly, because that just did absolutely nothing for you. You're supposed to be working your legs, your abdominals, and you, you're working you arms and legs. Really, you need to learn the proper technique. You shouldn't be getting more than 30 rows per minute." [Meanwhile, I continue to drip sweat, obviously because the rowing I just did absolutely nothing for me.]

This is what the old man heard me say: "Oh, really. Hmmm. Okay. Thanks." [Anna walks away shaking her head in disbelief].

This is what the old man should have heard and might have heard if he had the ability to read minds:


Who the hell do you think you are, you old fart? I have NOT been rowing my ass off over there for some perv-old man who apparently isn't rowing, but instead watching me and counting how many rows I get per minute, to hear you decide it is your place and time to become a personal trainer. Suck it old man. I do know how to row and actually, I think you are doing it wrong. However, I know it is impolite to share fitness tips unless specifically requested. AND GUESS WHAT.... I DON'T REMEMBER ASKING YOUR ADVICE OR OPINION. I think you're just jealous. Bitch.

That's just how I row.

Anna Marie (and Jack and the Bradley have my back)