“Step away from the wall,” Veronica yelled through her ear microphone, loud enough so everyone could hear her.

I knew if I released my grip, the chances of me remaining upright weren’t very good.  Permit me to roll back the clock thirty minutes.  Friday morning in Philadelphia.  It’s raining.  In Texas they call this much rain a frog-floater.  Two and a half hour delays at the airport.  A cold biting rain, the kind that sees you in Gortex and simply laughs at you for being too silly to be indoors.

I cancelled my run and decided to sit in on one of the classes at the gym, take a break, rest up for a long run tomorrow.  The only class scheduled was kickboxing, and it’s being led by the mother of my seven year-olds best friend—not exactly my biggest physical threat. She wore her hair like Veronica in the Archie comic books, and because I couldn’t remember her real name, for purposes of this narration, that’s how we will address her.  I don’t even know what kickboxing is, but I know it doesn’t get any easier than that.  I’d finished my lifting, finally got to thirty pull-ups today—yes, in a row, and I was pumped.

I walked into the mirrored room.  The floors were recently shellacked—I love the smell of shellac in the morning.  Spandex clad women decked out in puce—isn’t that a great word—purple, lime green, and hot pink were everywhere.  The music—some sort of electronic something or other—started to blare and bodies started to move.  Knowing that I wouldn’t be sucking wind, I thought about asking Veronica to put on some music with words so we could sing along.  She gave me one of those looks that said, “In five minutes you will be so mine.”

The class is scheduled to last sixty minutes.  We began by jumping rope and I almost broke both of my legs—I am the poster boy for the theory that white men can’t jump.  I grabbed a pair of dumbbells to do with the exercises, just to make sure I got a bit of a workout.  Twelve minute into the class and I looked like the rain had followed me inside.  At minute thirteen, I dropped the dumbbells.  By minute sixteen, I no longer had any feeling in my shoulders.  I thought I saw a few of the participants checking me out, one advantage of being the only Y chromosome in the class—the one closest to me came over to ask if I was okay.

A twenty-second break for a sip of water—I had already downed my liter.  The colors of the spandex outfits had started to blur into what looked like a Peter Max painting that had been left out during a downpour.  Minute twenty-two, thighs are burning.  Twenty-four, I am found clinging to the wall.  I would not have made the twenty-fifth minute.  I reached for my cell phone and pretended that I had a voice message.  Two minutes later, I crawled out of the room.

I had under estimated the threat level, under planned, and under delivered, surpassing even my own inadequacies.

My fall from grace was short lived.  A fall from grace once you get beyond seven figures of cost implementing your EHR won’t be so short lived.  Those names will echo down the commercially carpeted hallways for a long time.

What’s being under planned?  The plan for one thing.  Once you’re into eight figures, I hope you have a written and signed-off plan.  That sign-off may be your life jacket, unless they decide to parole only those above you.  Once you get into even the potential of a nine-figure spend, I’d plan on a planning process of three to six months.

Anything less may find you clinging to a wall.