There’s no way to sugarcoat how I feel about exercise: I hate it. I’ve seen avid runners, pumped-up weightlifters, yoga enthusiasts, happy golfers, and other insane people talk about how exercise can be fun if you find the one physical fitness activity you can truly get passionate about. I’ve tried many, many things. The only thing I am passionate about is my hatred for all things remotely resembling exercise.
 
Part of this is hereditary. I come from a long line of women who hate exercising. My mother, her mother before her . . . one of my fondest memories of my maternal grandmother is when she rented a wheelchair at Disney World because “Why walk around the park when you can ride? We are here for the rides, aren’t we?” Darn straight we are, Grandma. (Plus, as an added bonus, we got to line hop because of Grandma’s “handicap.”)
 
But sadly, the only thing I’ve found that works to snap the faithful dieter out of a plateau and back on the losing weight train is exercise. Over my lifetime, I’ve owned the following:
 
•          An exercise bike
•          A weightlifting bench and weights
•          A yoga mat
•          A tai chi DVD series (unopened)
•          Nunchucks
•          An exercise ball
•          Stretchy elastic things
 
And over my lifetime, the exercise I’ve found I can do with any regularity is as follows:
 
•          Walking while reading a book
 
Now before you start yelling at me about how dangerous this is, let me assure you: walking is a miserable activity. The only way I’m going to do it is if I have a book to entertain me. And if I’m hit by a truck while doing it, well, at least the misery of exercising is over, right?
 
I figure walking while reading encompasses the best of all physical fitness regimes: if I need to build my upper arm strength, I carry a heavy hardcover. If I want the thrill that comes with skydiving, I walk in the woods, where I’m more likely to trip or step on a snake because I’m not paying attention. And the peace of mind that those yoga nuts always talk about is just as easily achieved by a feel-good chapter of Augusten Burroughs.
 
I can’t say the people around me are quite so enthusiastic about my activity of choice. Jason hates it that I do this, because blah blah blah dangerous. My coworkers are tired of me bumping into them (I tend to read/walk on my break). And the trucks that have mercifully slammed on their breaks when I’ve stepped in front of them sometimes have some colorful expletives to share.
 
Here’s the thing: I’m exercising. Isn’t that enough?

This weekend, in the Longo family, we’re celebrating both Father’s Day and my mother’s birthday. I like to call these people “Mom” and “Dad,” and they’ve both had a profound impact on who I am today. I suspect this is because they are my parents, and have raised me from the moment I came squawking into this world.
 
I’m not just talking about the regular stuff (I hate mushrooms, like Mom; I find a potato not worth eating unless it has sour cream on it, like Dad). I mean things like who I am. My personality. There’s a whole lot of Mom and Dad in there. For example, my mother is rather introverted, and has a small handful of people she calls her friends. Dad, on the other hand, will talk to anyone. (Seriously, every door-to-door Mormon who ever stopped by his house didn’t leave until they got the full, step-by-step instructions about how to artificially inseminate a cow. Dad, incidentally, will not only talk to anyone, he’ll talk about anything.)
 
You’d think any offspring of this reserved introvert and this outgoing conversationalist would be one or the other. Ha! Now, I’d like to think I’ll talk to anyone. I’ve been known to chat with strangers in the cereal aisle, at traffic lights, and in the ladies’ room at Grand Central Station. (Thanks for that, Dad.) But the whole time during the conversation with the lady in the bathroom complaining that the hot air in the hand dryer isn’t hot enough, I’m wishing she’d just stop talking and leave me alone forever. (Thanks for that, Mom.) I try to be friendly and chatty and all that good stuff Dad does . . . but talking to people wears me out, and I have only a small handful of people in my life I call my friends. (Incidentally, my sister is polite with strangers, will listen to them briefly, then walk away before exchanging email addresses the lady at the hand dryer. She has about twenty people in her life that she considers close friends.)
 
Mom and Dad laid down the rules for how one should live their lives early on. Work hard. Be nice to people. Don’t ever be rude, and don’t ever be wasteful. And if someone puts out a dish of jelly beans, eat one of each flavor, even if you don’t like the green ones. (Not eating the green ones is rude and wasteful.)
 
But lately, Mom and Dad have been changing the rules on me.
 
I went to pick up a hot water tank at Home Depot with Dad last fall, and we walked in, had a guy show us where they were, compared sizes and prices and warranties, and purchased the one we needed. As we were wheeling the tank out to Dad’s truck, it struck me: “Dad? Are you feeling okay?”
 
“I’m not looking forward to installing this thing, if that’s what you’re asking.”
 
“No, I mean, you didn’t talk to the Home Depot clerk . . . at all, really. We left that man with zero knowledge of how to tell the difference between cow corn and sweet corn.” (Incidentally, it’s all about the shape and color of the kernel.)
 
Dad shrugged. “He didn’t ask.”
 
Wait, what? Who was this man, and what had he done with my father? I was growing concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay? You haven’t been diagnosed with something alarming, have you?”
 
“No. I just didn’t feel chatty today. It happens sometimes, you know.”
 
It did? More importantly, it was okay to not chat?
 
When we got back to my parents’ house, my mother was picking at a bowl of jelly beans. She stood up with a handful of greens, walked to the garbage, and threw them out. My jaw dropped. “What are you doing?” I said in a voice, ironically, not unlike my mother’s.
 
“I don’t like the green ones. Nobody in this house does. I’m tossing them.”
 
“But—but—wasteful! Rude!”
 
Mom sighed. “I’ve worked hard my whole life. I feel I’ve choked down enough green jelly beans in my lifetime. I don’t want to anymore. These things cost me ninety-nine cents a bag. I’m okay with tossing out the green ones.”
 
Years. Years of my life eating the stupid lime jelly beans because I’d been taught I should. I turned to my father. “Dad?”
 
He lifted a hand, palm out, as if to say it is what it is. He didn’t actually say it, though, which just increased my anxiety. What was going on? “What is going on?” I asked.
 
Mom smiled, laying a gentle hand over mine. “Life is short. We’ve decided we’re not going to do things we don’t especially want to anymore simply because it might be considered rude. The jelly beans don’t care if I don’t eat them. The door-to-door Mormons don’t need to hear about artificial bovine insemination any more than we need to hear about their religious beliefs. It’s okay to say, ‘Not today, thanks.’ Go on, try it.”
 
I opened my mouth, but my lips struggled to form the word “N-no.” I cleared my throat. “No?" Then again, stronger: “No.” It felt good.
 
“Perfect,” Dad said. “Now off with you. Oh, can you grab the paper on your way up the driveway when you come by on Sunday?”
 
“No,” I said again, empowered.
 
“Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t clear,” Mom said. “Absolutely say ‘no’ more. But never, ever, to us.”
 
Lesson learned.
 
Happy birthday, Mom! Happy Father’s Day, Dad!