The Great OC Slimdown Begins

Long ago, when we were barely twenty, the OC and I had summer jobs at Kennedy Airport. I had become friendly with his sister, and, irony of ironies, was introduced to the OC by their father, who, when we wanted to get married a few years later, raised the loudest howls of protest. The OC had just returned from a stint at ROTC summer camp in Alabama. On our first date we went to the beach. He was lean and muscular from all the physical training he'd been through at camp, tanned by the Alabama sun, and very handsome because he was born that way. That was thirty nine years ago.

Now he is no longer lean. His waistline has thickened considerably in the last five years. He used to run marathons; he still rides a bike, once in a while, but not often enough; he lifts weights occasionally; he plays golf most weekends. But none of this budges the thickness from his middle.

So, whisper, whisper, Rise and I plotted how we could intervene to halt the spread of the spread. Rise is the family fitness guru. Lean as a racehorse, she teaches fitness and swimming to persons of all ages, genders and girths. She herself runs regularly, hikes and bikes, and trots daily, back and forth to the palace. She declared that, for the OC to be restored to the physical splendor of his youth, he should walk. Fast. Every day.

The OC was not impressed. Walking was for sissies; for old ladies; for children and wives; too tame an activity for a manly man. Besides, wouldn't it be much more fun if a new machine were required, something expensive, and intimidating, some kind of treadmill perhaps?

But why, the voice of reason asked, spend a lot of money on something that would take up lots of space, require regular cleaning and maintenance, [not to mention causing brain cells to die from the boredom of trudging along in the same place, never getting anywhere,] when you could operate your own machinery, shank's mare, and achieve the same, or better, results, for free?

We were dismissively pooh-poohed.

And then we went to visit Lily. Lily, who remembers forced family fun outings from her youth. When Pater Familias would drag us all, the willing and the unwilling, to the track, or the soccer fields, or on a long bike ride. Every weekend it was something. She added her voice to the clamor for walking. He tried to pooh-pooh her, but she wasn't having any of it. She took him on a forced march one evening, just the two of them. And, despite our superior wisdom and years of experience, who do you think prevailed upon him to do what he needs to do? Not Rise, his sage and learned sister-in-law; not me, his loyal wife of thirty nine years, but the young, determined whippersnapper, his daughter! Not that he succumbed right away or did anything to give her the least idea she had succeeded. Face, at all costs, must be saved. It was only this morning, that he suggested we go to the track at the end of the work day and walk two laps.

Breakthrough!

And so it came to pass. We went to the track. We walked two laps. Fast. Then we walked another. We didn't die. But we did huff and puff. Proving that walking, fast, is not for sissies, but a good way to lose unwanted, unnecessary and unhealthy poundage. This miracle could not be achieved by mere mortals. It required daughter intervention. Daughters have magical powers over old curmudgeons. Powers to move them to do what they should, even when everyone else fails. Thank God for daughters, I say!