Being 61 years old, and damn near, kind of, semi-retired, I told my wife I was going to walk every day.
"Join a gym," she said. "You can join a gym for $10 a month, and you could go during the day when there are not too many people there."
"The only gyms I ever liked were boxing gyms," I said. "They're dirty and comfortable, and they don't have lime green treadmills."
"Go to a boxing gym," she said. "There's one in that old factory a mile from here."
"I can't go to a boxing gym anymore," I said. "If I get in the ring with some kid, he's going to knock me around like a tether ball. I'll end up to dead."
"So, go and do all the boxing stuff except fight," she said. "Hit the bag, do some weights, whatever the other stuff was you used to do."
"No," I said. "I can't go in a boxing gym and not get in the ring."
Not that I was anybody's world champion. Some fighters are hard to hit. Some fighters are hard to knock out. I was hard to watch.
My wife does yoga. It looks silly as hell, but she does it at home, where no one can see her but me and the cats, and we rather like the show. As far as I know, you can't die from doing yoga, not unless you decide to do it on the roof, and you fall off.
So, having decided not to get beaten blind by some kid from the nearby housing projects, and having rejected the notion of a cavernous gym with rows of neon-colored treadmills, I decided I'd walk every day.
Here in damn near, kind of, semi-retirement, I've taken on a two-hour talk radio show at a local radio station, where I speak my opinions into a microphone, and people who love Donald Trump call in and suggest I "move to Iraq, since you hate America so much."
The other day, I went to the radio station with a pair of sneakers and a T-shirt in a plastic grocery store bag. When I finished my show, I drove to a local junior college, where there is a one-mile track that runs around an ornamental pond. Hardly anyone ever uses the path, so I thought it would be restful.
It was restful. I changed my shirt and shoes in the parking lot, and I walked a mile pretty briskly.
It felt good. Although it's October, it was nearly 80 degrees, the sun was high and bright, and I broke a little sweat.
Around a bend, and not to far from the end of my walk, where trees screened me from the outside world, I picked up the pace a little.
I put my hands up. I cocked my wrists a little. I threw a left jab into the air, and then a straight right hand. I jabbed twice more, brought my hands down, and finished my walk.
I haven't told my wife, but I think I'm going to throw a few punches every day when I take my walk.
Inside every older man is the memory of a good left hook.
To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, "The Land of Trumpin'," is a slightly punchy but enraged journey through the new America. It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle, iBooks and GooglePlay.