Tuesday, March 23, 2021

FITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM

A few days ago I had a very disturbing experience. 

Having scored two vaccines, and realizing I would soon have to go out into the world again, I decided it was finally time to take on my mortal enemy: the Covid 15. (It may actually be the COVID 20 or 30 at this point. I honestly have no idea.) The impulse became even stronger when I caught Willy Wonka on TV and realized I was identifying with Augustus Gloop.

There were two obvious methods of attacking the enemy. One was to execute a search-and-destroy mission to rid my house of all of the chocolate that, as I've previously explained, my husband hides from me. This seemed both extreme and unnecessary. The other was to unfreeze my health club membership. 

I chose the latter. I figured that a horde of the recently vaccinated would also be waddling in the direction of the fitness center. I imagined feeling a warm, supportive camaraderie as we heaved ourselves onto the machines or belly-flopped into the pool. So the next day, for the first time in a year, I packed the red mesh Costco shopping bag that passes as my gym bag and headed over to LA Fitness. I marched up to the welcome counter, proudly poised to swipe my card. 

But then I made the mistake of looking around. 

To my horror, the fitness club was filled with women--young and old(er)-- who were actually fit. Women who were skinny. Women who could wear sports bras or those half t-shirts that float over bare midriffs. Women who had obviously dealt with lockdown by joining the Cult of the Peloton People or entering into an S&M relationship with those scary trainers that live in The Mirror. 

I froze in mid-swipe and began hyperventilating. 

“Are you okay, ma’am?” asked the girl behind the counter. 

“No, I am NOT okay.” I scanned the gym again.” Where are all the flabby, pasty-skinned people?”

“Excuse me?" 

“The women like me. The ones who have been sitting on the couch binge-watching Outlander and eating stuff.” 

“I'm sorry, I--" 

“DON"T YOU GET IT? I CAN’T EXERCISE HERE!!” 

I raced back home and bullied my husband into handing over the Oreos. But once the sugar rush hit, and because at one time I was considered an excellent problem solver, I became determined to develop a solution for women who, like me, are afraid to return to the health club.  

I call it THE FITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAMLike the government’s similarly named Witness Protection Program, it will be for those of us who have been very bad and need to go where no one will recognize us. 

The Fitness Protection Program would be offered at participating gyms 3 mornings a week. To be admitted, you must have gained at least 15 pounds over the last year and be unable to climb a flight of stairs without wheezing. There will be a small additional fee, but the benefits, presented below, will be well worth it. 
 

























I plan to start sending the proposal to local gyms next week. I’ll let you know how it goes. Until then, I’m going back into lockdown.

Tuesday, March 9, 2021

TOY STORY 3.5

Remember the end of Toy Story 3? When Andy gives all his toys to an adorable curly-headed little girl who believes they are real? Because Andy knows she will love them forever and ever and ever? 

Okay. Well, that little girl's name was Bonnie, which means I'm pretty sure someone from Pixar knows about me. 

As a former adorable, curly-headed little girl myself, I too believed that my toys were alive. The problem is, I am now a decidedly less adorable adult who still retains that belief. (That is why, to this day, I never put dolls or stuffed animals in a box without air holes.) 

This quirk is something my husband is aware of, but he has accepted it and tries not to comment on it. In return, I continue to pretend that the Marvel Universe really exists. This arrangement has worked quite well for both of us. 

Until recently, when my cover was blown. 

Here’s what happened. My husband and I were home, babysitting our grandson who was napping in another room. Our son arrived and, after a cheerful hello, went to peek in on his little buddy. He reappeared a few moments later, somewhat pale and notably less cheerful, with something dangling between his thumb and forefinger. (Not my grandson.) 

“Ma. What the hell?” 

Now, before we go any further, you need to know that I happen to have a treasured 62-year-old stuffed lamb, with the inspired name of Lamby, who is normally tucked away on the shelf of my bedroom closet. Lamby no longer has anything resembling fur, his ears are the thickness of tissue paper, and one of his legs is literally hanging on by a thread. He also has a disturbing odor. He is, in other words, the nursery school equivalent of Norman Bates’s mother. 

And that’s what my son was holding. 

“What was this doing in the crib with my child?” he asked. 
 
“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” I said, cringing. “I mean, I meant to take him out this morning.” 

“Okay. But why was he there in the first place?” 

I remained silent, so my son turned to my husband. 

“Dad? Do you know?” 

“I do.” 

“Well?” 

“Mom was worried that Lamby was lonely.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Well there used to be a stuffed cat up there, too, but then Mom gave the cat to your little guy to play with one day and he fell in love with it and took it home.” 

“So…Mom started putting Lamby in the crib with the other stuffed animals so he’d have someone to talk to?” 

“Yes. Blue Bunny and Big Bear and Fluffy Puppy.” 

(This is not the complete story, by the way. When I first put Lamby in the crib, my husband, displaying a sadistic streak I didn’t know he possessed, decided to torture me by asking if I thought the other stuffed animals might beat up on him. I immediately checked on them to make sure no one’s position in the crib had changed. For a glimpse inside my head, see below.)


“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I know I’m not a well person.” 

My son, now speechless, returned to the bedroom to retrieve his son. I turned to my husband. 

“Do you think he’ll ever let us babysit again?” 

“Well, maybe not you…”