Yesterday afternoon I had one of my favorite conversations with my Dad. I like to call him in the afternoons, as I scavenge for lunch (usually a salad) and I like to tell him about my girlish woes and aspirations, and he tells me about his day and his golfing and his workouts and his apirations. And I have, on occasion, been known to be slightly repetetive in my woes and aspirations, and he so wonderfully listens, consoles and gives great fatherly advice, and always, always laughs at my jokes. And not little laughs, but big, hearty, chuckley laughs. It makes me feel really good about myself. (And on the very rare occasions when he does need to be prompted to laugh, I know he finds my cues so witty that he can't help but burst into happy gales. Which also makes me feel good.)
I had sort of a crummy morning at work, and by the time I was able to step out and call my Dad, I'd already eaten lunch and was jonesing for a Diet Coke. A contraband Diet Coke, considering I forced myself to give them up. But oh, it was delicious. I digress. As I am wandering aimlessly up Lexington Avenue, chatting away about this and that, a tiny whine snuck into the conversation. And then another. And then another. And then before I knew it, the phone gremlins made it sound like I was shrieking into the phone with complaints about my morning. And my poor dad! Those twerpy little gremlins just wouldn't stop! I mean, I would never shriek and complain and whine while standing on 57th Street and Lex. Come on now. I at least I wait until I'm inside.
And my dad listens, makes all the appropriate "oohhh" and "gosh that must have been tough" consoling noises. And then as I'm winding down, he lets it rip with, "You know that whining doesn't burn calories, right?"
Shoot. You mean...complaining isn't cardio?