Ways to Improve Your (My) Experience at the Gym

Suppose for the sake of argument that you found yourself endowed with a few extra pounds on your ass, which you’re certain has nothing to do with the fact that you started eating sugar and glutens again during the holiday season (in 2008) and everything to do with God’s plan to dole out retribution. Why would God seek vengeance on someone’s posterior region when there are so many other regions in the world in need of his loving attention? I'll share my theory. Because last year someone may or may not have noticed that someone else’s ass had gotten bigger. (The someone else happens to have a disagreeable and unpleasant personality, for the record.) And now the noticer’s ass is bigger too. God can be like that. What?

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Improving your (my) gym experience.

So someone had to go to the gym tout de suite. (I love using the term tout de suite.) (I love suites.) (And sweets.) (Duh.)

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Improving your (my) gym experience.

Why tout de suite? Here’s an algebraic equation (I think) that explains it better than words:

A + D = G

A = ass size; D = daughter’s wedding in June; G = gym

Sorry about the math. Are you still with me? Please stay. Stay to help me. I really need help. Duh.

It is important for us to come up with ways to improve your (my) experience because it turns out that you have to do things at the gym that are not the same as sitting on the couch watching back-to-back episodes from season three of Weeds.

I've thought of a few. Here they are:

First of all, going to the gym often means getting up early, which is clearly a problem. A cappuccino machine would be an obvious way to improve the gym experience. In fact, a cappuccino machine is obviously far more important than the stupid water cooler often found in gyms. Duh.

Working out at the gym often involves things like repetitions, circuits, and other efforts that take time and energy. This is why there needs to be a barista to operate the cappuccino machine. Duh.

Also? It turns out there are heavy things at the gym. Rumor has it that these things are called weights. And? It turns out that people who go to the gym are expected to pick up these heavy items. I don’t know why. Don’t bother trying to explain it to me. I don’t care. So, obviously, there needs to be a bell captain at the gym to pick up the heavy things when you call down to the desk. Duh.

Are you still with me? Thank you. I promised I’d need help, and you stayed. I love you.

So.

Much like it is at the gym, I can’t be expected to do all of the work. Can you help me think of other ways to improve your (my) gym experience?

Carabiners Are the New Hoops

INT. CHERI'S CAR, DRIVING HOME FROM SCHOOL - DAY


Me: "Laura, do you have carabiners in your earrings?"

Laura: "Hehehehehe. Yeah."

Me: "Did you wear those to school today?"

Laura: "Hehehehehe. Yeah."

Me: "You went out the door with those things in your ears this morning and I didn't notice?"

Laura: "Hehehehehe. Yeah."

Me: "Holy crap."

Laura: "Am I in trouble?"

Me: "No. I am."

Laura: "Hehehehehe. Yeah."

Yellow Lines

She drove the Mustang with weathered yellow paint, windows gummy with yellow nicotine residue, into the Sav-On parking lot near LAX. She was probably there to pick up a prescription; she rarely left the house for any other reason. Her little daughter sat in the passenger seat. She was all of about seven years old, maybe eight.

The spaces in the parking lot were painted with yellow diagonal lines, and the woman drove down the narrow aisle in the wrong direction, unable to park. Realizing that she was going the wrong way, she waved her hand and with conviction in her voice she said, “They repainted the lines in this parking lot. Last week this row went the other direction.”

Her little girl looked out of the window, down at the asphalt, and peered at the lines as the car moved along the aisle. The yellow paint was cracked and faded. The child knew right away that row of parking spaces was angled in the same direction that it had been the week before. She looked over to the next aisle to see whether it was freshly painted, knowing that it was not, but perhaps still hopeful.

The little girl saw an entire parking lot with row after row of cracked and faded yellow lines. She knew right then and there that the thing that would matter would be the direction that she would drive, when she could drive. Meanwhile, she remained silent as the car moved along, against the direction of the lines.

What Else Not to Say

So, on Friday, I wrote a rush-job post about a strange woman who looked me right between the eyes and asked:

“Have you ever thought about getting a Botox injection?”

You can’t make this stuff up, right?

But there was more. And some context might help the perplexed among us (except probably not).

I was in the small reception area of a local salon waiting to get my eyebrows waxed (which I’ve never done before, but with my oldest daughter’s upcoming wedding in June I thought it might be nice to see if a professional could do something with the hot mess over my eyes) . . . where was I? Oh yeah. There was another woman also waiting for an appointment. She was thumbing through Us Weekly when she turned to me, looked at me carefully, and possibly thought I was there for Botox, right? Except they don’t do Botox at that salon. Just nails and eyebrows. I asked. (No, I didn't.) (Yes, I did.) (But only because I was wondering after the strange woman's question.) Anywho.

You might be wondering why I kept answering her after the initial Botox question besides the fact that I’ll always whore myself for blog fodder. You know how the freeway slows and you see flashing lights ahead? And you know how you get annoyed because the slowing is due to rubbernecking? And you know how you vow not to look when you pass by the accident, but then you peek ever so quickly? This conversation was like that for me. I knew what was ahead, but I just had to hear it anyway.

Here’s how the entire conversation went:

Strange Woman: “Have you ever thought about getting a Botox injection?”

Me: “Um. Oh. Uh. I don’t know.”

She went back to her magazine. And then . . .

Strange Woman: “Do you live in Rancho Santa Fe?”

(Note: Rancho Santa Fe is like the Beverly Hills or Bel Air of San Diego.)

My thoughts: WTF?

Me: “No.”

Strange Woman: “Oh. Where do you live?”

My thoughts: WTF?

Me: “XYZtown.”*

Strange Woman: “Oh. XYZtown is nice . . . if you’re by the beach.”

(Note: I don’t live by the beach.)

Strange Woman: “Do you work?”

My thoughts: WTF? I have an iPhone, a laptop, and HDTV, why would I want to work?

Me: “Yes.”

My thoughts: Holy crap. What have I done? Now she’s going to ask what I do.

Strange Woman: “What do you do?”

My thoughts: WTF do I say now? I can’t say writer because I’ve been paid exactly zero in the last three months. But even when I’m not paid, I do write. Sometimes. Crap. I hate having this why-can't-I-say-writer conversation in my head, particularly right now.

Me: “I’m a writer.”

The strange woman looked right at me. I’m sure that if she could have raised her eyebrows she would have. Then as she opened her mouth to speak . . .

My thoughts: Holy crap. Now she’s going to ask me what I write. She’s already dissed my face and where I live. What the hell will be her response if I just tell her I’m a blogger? But what if I don’t say blogger? An idea formed quickly beneath my wrinkled forehead and unkempt brows! What if I pretended to be Barbara Kingsolver? Surely this woman doesn’t read anything other than reception-area magazines, and even if she did, would she even remember the author's profile picture from the jacket of the last Barbara Kingsolver book? I bet I could get away with it! Think of the blog fodder that would create!

Receptionist: “Cheri? Lindsay is ready for you now.”

Saved by the brow.


______________

*I'm using a fake town so the person who came to my blog last week by searching "fat black tranny mom" can't find me. (I'm not making this part up either.)

What Not to Say

Here's a helpful hint.

Don't walk up to a complete stranger (who, for the record, is minding her own business), look at her carefully, and then say the following:

"Have you ever thought about getting a Botox injection?"

Because that? Just happened to me.

I'm not even lying.

I even looked around for Ashton Kutcher, with my wrinkled forehead. No cameras. I was not being punk'd.



This public service announcement has been brought to you by the prune head formerly known as Blog This Mom! Gah.

(Downy Wrinkle Releaser and dog photos totally stolen from some websites after a Google search.)

In Which Cheri Drops the F-Bomb

Fundraising. There, I said it. And you can say it too.

May 7 is the deadline for Jamie to raise enough money to take her heart to Africa!

Please give.
No gift is ever too small.

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Spread the F-word today. For Jamie. For the kids in Africa.