It’s 6 a.m. I’m reluctantly slipping on an old T-shirt, lacing up my battered sneakers and searching for my sunglasses, preparing for my daily walk. One of the downsides of getting older is that exercise becomes necessary.

When we were young, the words “high blood pressure” were only used in context with our parents — “You’re gonna give me high blood pressure with that room of yours!”

Now in mid-life, those words drag along quite a bit of baggage — lose weight, watch your salt and, the most dreaded word of all, exercise.

Over the years, I’ve tried to find ways to make exercising more enjoyable. I tried aerobics. Klutzy people should never try intricate dance moves in a skin-tight leotard. Tried swimming. People who can’t swim in a straight line should never try swimming laps at the Y.

Walking, a feat I mastered at the age of 2, seemed my ticket to good health. Early on, I bought a portable CD player that strapped onto my waist. Of course, the belt is made for a young, fit person, not someone whose waist measurement is akin to a yardstick. So I ended up carrying the CD player.

“Swing your arms” was advice I read in a magazine article, so I swung my arms. Which resulted in my ripping the headphone cord out of the CD player. On the last high swing, I sent the CD player sailing, and that was the end of music distracting me from sweating.

I bought a portable radio that clamped to my arm. The plastic band was meant for someone whose arm diameter was the size of a small branch. What about we tree trunks, I thought as I yanked and pulled on that Velcro band.

Finally, the radio in place and earphones on, I set out for a walk, and was disappointed with all the static on that little device. I switched from a country station to talk radio to rock and roll, and all were tough to hear.

As the sweat poured down my arm, the band became loose, the radio slipped off and I stepped on it, smashing it into a dozen pieces.

So I decided to walk without music, telling myself I could enjoy the quiet of the morning. Instead I choked on the exhaust fumes from the dozens of cars whizzing past me and the sounds of every type of music imaginable blaring from said cars.

But, I told myself, I wasn’t out there for the entertainment. I was out pounding the pavement getting healthier. I believed that lofty notion until sweat dripped into my eyes when, mixed with left-over mascara, caused my eyes to sting like crazy.

The blister on the back of my left heel was starting to scream and sweat was dripping down my back and chest.

As I stood there, rubbing my eyes with the bottom of my grimy T-shirt, I wondered why exercise has to be so hard.

Why can’t exercise be combined with something fun, like eating? If there was a way to pair exercise with a banana split, topped with nuts and mounds of whipped cream, or a thick steak accompanied by a fully loaded baked potato, I’d be all over that.

The practical, pesky voice inside my head came through loud and clear: “Those are two of the main reasons you’re out here. Besides, exercise makes you feel good.”

I muttered back — “The only time I feel good exercising is when it’s over.”

The end results of walking, biking or running are better health and longer life. Now if we could get to that healthy end accompanied by chocolate cake and a scoop of ice cream, then life would be grand.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.