Ultimately, I agreed to join the ominously-named
Mizuno Rush To Infinity Run (“How long before the finish line?” “Oh, just a few infinity meters”) because we hubbies rarely do sporting activities together. This, despite the fact that our relationship was founded three years ago on a
badminton game. Long story short: a mutual friend, playing cupid, invited Hubby one night to box with us. But since the boxing gym was closed at the time, we decided to play badminton instead.
Being a virgin badminton player, Hubby had trouble keeping up with us and our game became an uncompetitive, sweat-free affair that had me charitably feeding shuttlecocks to his hitting zone. “Are you trying to lose on purpose?” my doubles partner asked me after we lost a pathetic set.
“No. Not really,” I said.
After our game, numbers were exchanged, calls were made, and before long, Hubby and I were inseparable as conjoined twins sharing a vital organ. The courtship period --- just who courted who is a debatable point --- went on for two weeks until one midnight, in his parked car, seats reclined, we made our relationship official. Checking his wristwatch after our first connubial kiss, Hubby said, “Just to be clear. It’s already 12:14 a.m. So our anniversary technically falls on September 10, not September 9. Okay?”
Since our initial meeting, Hubby never played badminton again. I'd prod him to take lessons, highlighting his terrific potential (“You’re tall, you’re quick, you’re Chinese!”) but he just wasn’t interested in the sport. “I’ve already gotten what I want from badminton,” he’d say.
“And what’s that?”
“You.”
*****
For a brief period last year, we jointly took yoga classes. It was his idea and gamely I went along. Twice a week for three months, we'd do all sorts of spine-breaking poses in kiln-like conditions under the watchful eye of our instructor, Hillary. “Bend your knees lower, Misterhubs. That’s not low enough. Lower… lower… lower... There. Feels good right?” Hillary said while I faked a look of comfort.
The heat and pain and Hillary notwithstanding, I enjoyed our yoga sessions. Hubby, however, didn’t. After our classes ended, I learned why. “For some reason, I get very gassy when I do yoga. Something about it makes me want to fart.”
Early this year, I found another yoga studio which offered cheaper rates and asked Hubby if he’d like to sign up for a one month package. “Nah. Yoga makes me fart.”
“I see... Well. Since you don’t want to come, I guess I’ll just have to practice yoga alone... All by myself… Just me, myself and I… No one but me… Alone… (my voice tapering to a whisper)… Alone.”
The way I uttered those words, one would think I’d just been banished to some unknown island, population zero, not counting the monkeys. But Hubby’s already immune to my theatrical attempts at guilt-tripping him. “Okay, have fun! Text me when you’re done,” he’d say.
Fast-forward to now. Now, he’s the one asking me to take part in his sport, this Rush to Infinity Run thing. Much as I want to decline, I couldn’t. How could I when, for the longest time, I’ve been telling him that we should exercise together? Consistency demands that I join that Rush to Infinity Run, flat feet be damned. Otherwise, I'd lose that precious I-Always-Do-The-Things-You-Like-But-You-Don’t-Always-Do-The-Things-I-Like card which comes in handy whenever we get into petty quarrels.
“So are you joining or what?”
“Ok, Ok, Ok.”
“Great! You won’t regret this. Promise!”
*****
About fourteen hours later, as I’m hobbling alone somewhere along Bayani Road, the bones of my lower legs feeling like they’re about to splinter, I wondered why the hell I signed up for this.
(To Be Continued.)
