On the treadmill next to mine, a regular at my gym turned to me and said, “I usually don’t work out in the afternoon, but I had to get out of the house.”
“Why, is everything OK?” I asked.
She took a deep breath, clutched the bars, clenched her jaw and said, “Since my husband retired, his butt is glued to the recliner, his finger to the remote. Whenever I try to get him to do something with me like going antiquing, hitting balls at a driving range or taking bridge classes, he scrunches his nose as if I’d asked him to eat liver and onions. I’m losing it.”
Continue reading Laura’s latest article in the Baltimore Sun.
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