Push-ups

Just did 25 push-ups. Not too bad. I could have done more but the carpet in the bedroom smelled like pee and socks. Every time I came up, I didn’t want to go back down again. Try for 30 tomorrow in the TV room. Probably start working in some sit-ups sometime next week. Yeah, I’ve been trying to work myself back into shape a little bit. Maybe lose a couple pounds.

I bet you can’t do 25 push-ups right now. I mean real push-ups—all the way down, all the way up. Go ahead. Try it right now. Let’s see you. Back in the day, I could do them one-handed no problem. The girls would always ask me to do one-handed push-ups for them. Sometimes right in the middle of the hallway between classes.

“Ooh, it’s Harry Deal,” they’d say. “Show us your muscles, Harry. Do some push-ups for us. Pleeeeease, Harry Deeeeeal. Bet you can’t do a hundred.”

I knew they were laughing at me the whole time I was down there. I’m not stupid. But I did it anyway. I had a whole routine. I’d start out with some straight push-ups, then do a few with some hand-claps in between, and then I’d start doing one-arms, switching back and forth from left to right. Then at the end, when a whole crowd had gathered around me, I’d pump out a few more regular push-ups, spring to my feet like no big deal, and flash the hang-loose sign before making tracks. I knew they were laughing, but this one girl, Linda Johanson, I was pretty sure she might secretly like me. I really thought I could impress her. I guess these days what I would do, instead of doing my push-up routine for her, and since I’m getting into words, I’d probably write her a love poem.