Why I Want a Heart Rate Monitor

Why do I want a heart rate monitor? That’s a loaded question, one asked by the employee health program at work. So I decided to play along and write the required essay.

First of all, to understand my need, one would have to take a walk through my day. Take today, for instance. My intention was to get to the office early, knock out some inventory in over time and look good to the company.

Yeah, right.

As the bard said, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. My internal clock—perpetually on Mountain Time (unfortunately I live in the central time zone)—went off right on schedule. Translated, that means I woke an hour late.

A glance at the clock told me why my alarm didn’t go off. Fuzzball, the cat, was comfortably stretched across the snooze button. Taking a swipe at the cat, I missed by a mile. My finger nail flew off, nearly taking my finger with it.

The day was off to a thrilling start.

Glancing at the clock again—minus the now-hiding cat—I tossed back the covers and bounded to my feet. I made a mad dash for the bathroom, but came to a screeching halt when the hall floor jumped up to kiss my face.

I know I should be ashamed of the words flying from my mouth, but the kid was at Grandma’s for the week, so I let fly while searching for whatever tripped me. That’s when I saw the dog. Lucy’s tail swished back and forth, her proud visage warning she was up to no good.

No good? The dog was possessed of Satan himself. Not far from her wagging tail was the thing which had tripped me.

Now, most who know me understand that I’m a pragmatic person. I don’t own much in the way of frivolity. That’s why when a friend connected in the fashion world gave me a gorgeous pair of Prada heels in go-to-hell red I was thrilled beyond words. I’ve had them for years and they still looked new.

Notice the past tense?

My already-racing heart jumped into my throat. The delicate straps, the stiletto heel, the sparkling embellishments—all in tatters across the hall floor. And the dog, with innocent eyes and her little head cocked ever so slightly to the side . . .

I clutched my chest as I fought the urge to beat the Bichon with the remnants of my prized shoe.

No time to mourn. Clean up shoe mess. Stare malignantly at dog. Hit shower. No time for hair & makeup. No time for anything other than throwing on clothes and . . .

Clothes? Oh, no! I didn’t put them in the dryer the night before. I had nothing else clean that would be presentable in the office. What was I to do? With water dripping from my now-washed hair, I began to scrounge. The best I could do was a worn tee shirt and a pair of wrinkled capris.

Lucy was uncooperative. She decided she wasn’t going to spend the day in the kennel. My patience at an end, I chased the mutt all over the house, cornered her in the bathroom and snatched her off the floor. The cat took this opportunity to lash out at the dog he hates so much, but caught the back of my hand with a single claw. He saw the look on my face, withdrew said claw and retreated behind the toilet. I’ll attend to him later.

The dog’s white fur was streaked red with blood when I shoved her in the kennel. I had a few choice words for our little members of the animal kingdom, and after playing chase the brat mutt, there was no time left for making lunch.

I left the house ten minutes behind schedule looking like hell warmed over and spit back out.

Ugh.

Well, at least traffic would be an adventure. Of course, I was almost to town before I realized I’d left my security badge at home. The speed limit on the road to my house is fifty. I returned doing eighty.

Back on the road again, the clock in my car told me I would be about ten minutes late. Grand. I would have to make up time on the drive. I got about a mile away when I started to wonder about the garage door. Had I closed it?

Some people have the gift of a golden tongue. I, on the other hand, have a particular gift for foul language. I let fly with a string of oaths that would make a longshoreman blush. I called into question the parentage of the world, made allusions to the evil origins of dogs and cats, and was quite blasphemous in my assessment of life in general.

So I drove home again. When close enough, I could see the garage door was closed, so the neighborhood heard rubber squealing on pavement when I cut a sharp U-turn.

On the highway, I placed a hand on my chest and felt the frantic drumming. Breathe, I told myself. Stay calm, breathe, go to your happy place.

My happy place is never in the morning. It’s an ancient family curse, you see. Generations ago, one of my ancestors had angered a Gypsy. She put a hex on our entire line that turns us into screaming banshees once the sun comes up. If something goes wrong in this family, it happens in the morning. This day was merely typical.

So, once again on the road paved with good intentions, I dodged through traffic to my exit. As luck would have it, every semi-tractor and freight vehicle in a three-state area was in front of me on the four-lane. Lovely. They were doing sixty on both south-bound lanes and I needed to do a hundred. Road hogs.

It is said there are two seasons in Illinois: Winter and Road Construction. Winter ended four months ago, meaning every road you travel is obstructed with machinery, barricades, trucks and hot guys in orange vests (usually spitting out wads of dust and saliva as you drive by). Traffic slows. It crawls. And there’s always some idiot who thinks he can get ahead of the pack only to cause more issues ahead when he realizes he has to get back into the line of stopped traffic. This day, I was that guy. Still, I managed to get through the construction without causing a wreck. Ah, but there was more traffic ahead.

No problem. A little ducking and weaving and I was ahead of the pack. Well, most of it, anyway. Only one obstacle lay ahead of me, my old nemesis in the white Cadillac Escalade. (See Just Another Bleeping Day: https://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=306406831067) He’s a fun sort of fellow, always juggling his laptop, coffee, cell phone and the steering wheel. I see him nearly every day as he struggles to stay on the road while tending to business. Owing to my normal morning mood, I couldn’t help but mess with him a bit. When I made my move to pass, as I pulled along side, he drifted into my lane.

Of course I knew what would happen. It’s happened before. I hit the horn hard and loud and watched a fountain of coffee spray the interior of his vehicle when he was caught off guard. With a malevolent grin, I put pedal to metal and sped past. He gave me his usual one-finger salute. I didn’t care as I watched the speedometer needle move past ninety.

My exit loomed. My stomach growled. My clock said, “You ain’t eatin’ today.”

The light at the top of the exit hit red just as I approached. Red, like the evening sunset. Red, like the color of my eyes. Red, like the blood boiling in my veins. Red, like the van that cut me off just as I got there.

I have a new nemesis.

The red van took its time moving through the light once it turned green. I tried to pass, but the driver decided he wanted to be in the same lane as me, so he cut me off again. I swerved into the other lane, offered him a salute appropriate to the situation, and made for my turnoff. This time, I cut him off. Boy, was he mad. Guess he didn’t like having the shoe on the other foot.

The next light was red, too, but I was past caring. There was a throbbing in my skull and every pulse point kept time with it. The drumming in my chest increased its pace until I thought something was trying to get out. Visions of Sigourney Weaver with the caustic head of an alien baby protruding from her chest came to mind. Be still, my heart.

The car screeched to a halt in one of the few parking slots left. The clock told me I had one minute to race to the door, run up two flights of stairs, dash across the building, get to my seat, log onto the computer, clock in and take my first phone call.

Later that day, my supervisor told me I broke a record. It generally takes six or more minutes for the computer to boot up and for all necessary systems to be opened. According to logs, I did it in three. I just smiled and nodded. Even my computer understands mornings for me. It’s become quite adept at knowing my moods. Logging-in in less than three minutes is nothing. We do it every day, the computer and I.

I took my first call—out of breath, stressed and choking around the heart in my throat. It still pounded frenetically, still threatened to break the bones that held it in place.

Why do I want a heart rate monitor? It would be interesting to find out how fast my morning marathons push the rate of beats-per-minute. I might be setting another new record.