2011 is the Year of the Fix

No, this is not an entry about sports gambling.  Once again, the fix I'm referring is all about....well, me.  And the explanation for this photo is coming in just a few short paragraphs.  You'll have to pay attention today, gang.

Regular readers already have seen evidence of the renovations currently going on in my New York abode.  But, new cherry wood cabinets and ceramic counters won't do anything to fix the "Len inside."   

You may have read that my visit to the Dodger orthopaedist late last Fall put me into physical therapy.  This has resulted in some largely positive results in strengthening the muscle I have left in my arthritic right knee.  And, given that one of the game show-like stunts my therapist has me doing is standing on one leg on a trampoline with my eyes closed, I may now qualify for the next Cirque Du Soleil open call.  The bottom line is that my right knee has never felt better and I am zipping up and down stairs now without caressing the bannister like it was Valerie Bertinelli.

While on one of my visits, I noted that the place had an affiliation with a personal trainer.  Actually, he has his own business but uses the gym equipment at the therapy site. 

Hmmmmmm......

Except for the last several years, I've always tried to do a moderate amount of exercise every week.  Oh, sure, sometimes it was just long walks, but exercise nonetheless.  Hell, back in the 90s, I became a little bit of a gym rat and was at Court Sports in Yonkers four times a week.  But, I never did any of these regimens with any expert guidance whatsoever.  And, at this stage in life, why not?  I probably need to know the right fitness program for me. 

Yeah, I signed up.  I doubt I'll look like those Navy guys in the photo above.  But, after all,....

This is the Year of the Fix.  And I am fixing myself.

My first several sessions with my personal trainer (how Hollywood does that sound?) were eye openers.  As it turns out, most gym rats are not doing the right program for their bodies.  Suddenly, I'm the smartest guy in the place.  Jeff, who previously worked in New York with both the Knicks and the Nets, certainly knows what he is doing.  And now so do I.

It's all about stretching.  And Jeff certainly flexed me in so many different ways I wanted to remind him that I wasn't Gumby.  Leg over here.  Arm over there.  Bend in this direction.  Bend in that direction.  He tells me that I have a lot more mobility than I realize.  I thank him for the compliment.  Now please help me up from the floor.

Again, I am a work in progress, but I leave an hour with Jeff feeling more nimble and invigorated than ever before.

I press the elevator button.  Even in the Year of the Fix, I'm not walking down six flights of stairs.  Heck, what good did all that exercise do for Jack LaLanne?  He couldn't even make it past the age of 96.

Dinner last night:  French dip sandwich at Houston's.