Unless there’s a nice hotel with a full gym, I find it impossible to enjoy a vacation, looking at trips abroad as a threat to my existence, a life dependent on routine, particularly working out. I have barely missed any workouts since I was bit by the exercise bug back in 1974 at the age of 13.
So with great dread a few days ago, I listened to my wife Carrie announce that when our baby girls are “old enough to appreciate it,” we are going to visit Carrie’s relatives in Croatia for the entire summer.
We are talking a remote island where there is no toilet paper, Internet, or Starbucks. We are talking no gyms. Carrie assures me there will be exercise in the form of “lots of walking.”
When will this vacation take place? Ten years from now. I’m already biting my nails, fearful that when I return from this 3-month trip, I won’t be able to bounce back to my workout routine, that missing my workouts for such a long period will push me into a bottomless abyss for which there is no return.
How could a man be a real man and worry about something that won’t take place, if at all, for another ten years?
I’m reminded of something my Grandma Mildred said to me when I was four years old: “You worry too much,” upon which I started worrying about my propensity to worry. My condition has only gotten worse.
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