The Human Gerbil
For in Him we live,
and move,
and have our being. .
. .
—
Acts 17:28
Do, too, exercise, I told the skeptics at my health
screening. Observe:
"Fork to face: Up, in, out, down!
Repeat!
"Snack drawer: Open, close! Open,
close! Repeat!"
They kept frowning. Numbers don't
lie. The couch potato was mashed.
Not only that, but I was a poor
excuse for advertising for my beloved JC. Fat! Lazy! Butterfinger crumbs
everywhere! And you call yourself a CHRISTIAN?!?
Time to start exercising. Ewwww!
Maybe I could buy my own treadmill,
for privacy. The store clerk demonstrated one with a cockpit like an F-22
Raptor, with thrust vectoring and supercruise. "Wow! That's fancy. How much is
it?"
"A little under two," he said.
"Not bad. I could do $200."
"Two THOUSAND," he snorted, retreating
to his iPod.
Maybe a used treadmill, then. But my
friend's is only 14 inches wide. It must have belonged to a peg-legged pirate. Yo
ho ho, and a bottle of . . . Dasani? Can this broad walk that narrow?
So it was off to the fitness center,
in my Brunhilda the East German Border Guard workout clothes. The other women
were in flirty sports bras and volleyball shorts. Oops. Didn't get the memo. Men's
faces swung hopefully toward me, sighed, and swung away.
The guru gave an orientation,
unaware of my E.I. - Electronic Impairment. "See this mmshwkghxwo? You just
press the qjksiv and it'll JVHSYTG for you. Got it?"
"Wait! Waaaaiiiitttt!!!!" But he had
already retreated to his iPod.
I was on my own. It was time to
shake it, Baybee. Shake it!
What was really shakin' was the
floor underneath the treadmill. The speed was set at 4 mph. How to slow it
down? No clue. Gripping the bars for dear life, I staggered forward desperately,
like someone at the very end of the Boston Marathon. If I fell off, there was no
one there to catch me.
What's that annoying squeak? Dang
thing's going to break? That would be good. At least it'd stop. But nooo. My
heels were bumping up against the back edge because I could barely keep up.
Not only that, but I kept clunking
my hands on metal, making exaggerated arm movements to swing away unsightly
upper-arm flab. Now I was going to have bruised hands. THAT'S unsightly!
Not only THAT, but all I had for
audio was an old yellow Walkman, the size of a small suitcase. It teetered on
the "dashboard." Inevitably, it crashed down between my legs, yanking my
earphones out painfully like twin corks, and clattering loudly onto the floor
behind.
My face turned the color of E.T.'s
as my circulation stirred from its fossilized state.
My legs took on a marked
Van-Choc-Straw appearance: pudgy white thighs, hot-pink knees, and brown, bony shins,
the only body part I'm willing to expose for tanning at the pool.
Between the purple hands, pink face,
and Van-Choc-Straw legs, I couldn't look in the mirror. Let's try the wall TV. But
with my E.I., I couldn't change the channels. So I was stuck with what the
person before had "on" -- a lesbian kiss scene here, and there, a documentary
about a woman who sought Third World breast augmentation, only one of "them"
exploded.
AAAIIIEEE!!!
Defeated on all fronts, I trained my
eyes straight ahead - on the treadmill controls.
And what do you know: they're fun!
Heyyy! Here's how to check my heart
rate!
Hunhhh! Here's how to keep track of
calories burned!
"Incline." Let's simulate the steep
steps of a Mayan pyramid!
"Intervals." Ooh! Sounds sexy!
Despite the rocky, embarrassing
start, playing with the treadmill controls got me hooked on exercise. Now I
really love it, regularly working out for an hour and burning as many as 600
calories. Amazingly, 4 mph now seems a little SLOW!
I'm 20 pounds lighter. My purple
bruises have gone away. OK, so I'm not a hot babe centerfold yet. But hey!
Lukewarm isn't bad. I even wore a slightly skimpier Gertrude the WEST German
Border Guard outfit the other day. And I got an iPod for Christmas. I retreat
to it regularly.
I'm on my way, Lord! Catch me! †
