I’ve fond memories of my Dad coming home from work and retreating to his room for 15-20 minutes every night. Door locked. Something from channel 6 on TV (news, Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune).
And I’d hear footsteps. Like someone jogging in place. Sometimes I’d have a question that couldn’t wait and I’d have to knock on his door. Or he’d have a phone call that couldn’t wait (it definitely couldn’t, there was literally no call waiting at the time).He’d run over to the door and open it. Working out in his room. Still jogging in place. While answering me or taking that call.Trying to be healthy in the space he could make.
Dad never spent money on himself. No treadmill, bike, anything. Every time someone tried to get him something he made them return it. Between work, commuting, coming home and spending two hours with his mom, my ba, who couldn’t walk, in her room. Years of this right routine.
He worked out in a 2’ x 4.5’ strip of carpet between his side of the bed and his dresser.
Daddy lived to 77 because he made space for himself. So he could make himself available then to everyone else who needed him.
And it worked.
My life is different. I work from home. I’m not as modest in spending on what I need. The financial and social and familial pressures are much less than what he faced.
But I’m still not as good at making time to exercise.
I’m better at excuses.
Today I found myself doing what a modern day version of my dad at 45 may have done or atleast approved of. A 2.0.Treadmill.Workstation.And Cobra Kai.
That last one is super important.
My dad took me to see Karate Kid on a Sunday night because I just had to go see it.
After a Sunday workout by his bed. Skipping his Sunday night tennis. He took the little space he had and then made space for me. He skipped his own weekly tennis indulgence and made space for me.
#iamgrateful and #iamthankful for this lesson clicking. Some 30+ years later. Sparked by my home setup. Which took me down a wormhole of memories, bringing me out to another unique layer of respect and appreciation for my Daddy.
That’s the power of teaching lessons with your actions. The lessons still get taught. People don’t always remember being taught them. You acted well, Dad. Impeccably always.
It appears I may have picked something up. Finally.