... pasta lungs

Here's a boring fact for ya! I have gone through at least 237 exercise routines since I was about 18. (That was completely exaggerated). I get bored and move on after anywhere from 3-6 months. I hate me a RUT. The one thing that has been consistent throughout my days of flailing activity is my pasta lungs. I have strength, I have endurance, I have pasta lungs. What the hell are pasta lungs? My definition is this: Pasta Lungs = what I believe any overweight Italian's lungs feel like when they walk more than 10 steps. Now, I am Italian but thankfully this condition isn't because I am 440 lbs overweight  but rather that I developed asthma in my early 20s. Mild, yes, however seemingly more annoying as the hours tick by.

I mostly have trouble breathing when I get sick, have allergies or when it feels like a humid armpit outside. I hardly ever use my inhaler -normally I just push my lazy lungs to their limit. But I have been noticing that the little fellows are slacking harder than usual these days. Gregg and I went for a short hike a few weeks ago and I found myself having a ridiculous amount of trouble as I Gandolfini'd my way back on the incline. So much so that I will never go again without my inhaler. Same goes for our bike rides. A couple weeks ago I had the same shocking experience on a hill that seemed to be tiny until we were practically begging our way up it. Naturally we were both laughing at our level of fitness but privately I was trying to catch my breath for what felt like an eternity but was probably 5 minutes.

It's funny how I treat that inhaler like a pack of half eaten mints. Every time I change pocketbooks I see it in there and yet don't transfer it to the new bag. Laughing to myself like I don't need to bring this with me, I never use it. And that immediately curses the upcoming events with some sort of breathing disaster. So the point of this uninteresting tale is that I will bring that ugly, yellow and orange, plastic, portable paramedic with me from now on. No matter how big or small my purse may be, there will forever be a seat for the little guy. Who knows - it just might save someone a harrowing call to 911.... Which would actually make a way better blog than this - so actually let me just rethink this whole thing.