Gravity is not your friend. You discovered this when you first learned to ride a bicycle and the lessons keep coming. One day you look down and notice what was once there has moved. Things fall and it’s generally not good, unless you count falling in love, which is fine as long as you also count falling out of love. Like I said, not a fan of the falling.
Our toned and fit First Lady has awakened my inner panic that I will live out my remaining days avoiding tank tops in summer and leggings in winter. If you’ve battled weight all your life, maybe it will bring you some comfort to know that those who haven’t are not necessarily in any better shape. They’re just hating gravity from a different gene pool.
So I began a scavenger hunt for sculpted shoulders and die-for thighs. Just like in real estate, it’s all about location. Where would I exercise to achieve the most probable degree of success? The basement, which had just sucked away twelve hours of my life getting it organized. It owed me. In one corner was all of Daughter’s high school and college debris that she swore she’d remove as soon as she lived somewhere larger than 500 square feet. In the opposite corner was Son’s legacy, which he scrutinized recently and hinted that it was all too messy to put in his nice new house. I wonder how he’ll feel about the charred remains.
Husband’s old NordicTrack Pro Skier was resistant at first, unhappy at being pulled from its deep coma within the hum of the dehumidifier. I oiled its tracks and polished its wooden slats to a showroom shine. Everything had to be in perfect feng shui or I’d lose my drive, my project would fail, and Marge Simpson would never come take her arms back. I had the place, I had the equipment; I just needed the music.
One of the kids left behind a JVC boombox that still had great sound. Yeah, I could really feel the burn with this baby. All I needed was the remote so I could call the shots from the NordicTrack. An hour-long search of the organized basement turned up no such remote.
I went to my computer and looked up the number for JVC and was connected by phone to their customer service division in upper Estonia or Bombay or you say where and it doesn’t matter because after another hour it was clear that our unit was from 1995 and getting a remote for it was as far away as me having Michelle Obama’s triceps. I asked the service rep how I could program the stations without a remote. He said I couldn’t. His professional advice was sound. Go on eBay.
An hour of surfing eBay listings led me to a Buy It Now for the exact remote I needed at $9.95 including shipping. The seller said he’d send it out the next day. I took a deep cleansing breath. This exercise routine was wearing me out. Maybe a DVD would be better. I drove to Target and bought Minna Lessig’s “Tank Top Arms, Bikini Belly, Boy Shorts Bottom.” A triple workout! Now all I needed was the exercise mat I bought for that yoga class I never took. The hall closet would be the place to start looking. Yoga….hmm.
Daughter’s Fotos sample exhibits at the Museum of Modern Art
MoMa
i see you
ready
broken dishes light fixture
corrugated chaise lounge
city to the wettest june on record: don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out