YMCA & TCM

Monday, it was post-war film noir, Tuesday -early liberator Miss Bette Davis, Wednesday - classic swashbuckling Errol Flynn, and a month before - Cary Grant's best. Everyday (almost everyday) at 7am, instead of popcorn, I'm snacking on gatorade and a banana before my hour-long morning workout. I'm addicted - and that's not because of the lean and mean results of my cardio workout - I'm stuck on vintage film! Those sappy, sentimental, saccharine-choked, films of yesteryear. It's crazy.
TV screens at the Y donn every EFX and treadmill. Just toss a pair of plugs into the set and forget that searing pain in your lower tibialis anterior. Between TCM, Netflix, and Tuesday nights at the Spectrum, I'm averaging 10 movies a week, not that I get to see most of these classics in their entirety, but enough to catch up on a loss artform that feels more productive than CNN. When enough time has lapsed, I exit the machine like I'm leaving a theater. Tears welling up, a pathetic look of romantic nostalgia, thoughts of our brave heroine rescueing his beautiful damsel in distress. Insipid and corny, I know. Constructive and physically rewarding, without a doubt!