Santa should have thought this through. Aligning his jolly name with cookies and chocolate has lasting ramifications...for the women responsible to actually do the fat man's job.
I'm all for loading up a plate of cookies for Saint Nick with a love note from the kids, I'm just sour that it ends with those jeans I bought on sale in September threatening to give me an appendectomy every time I sneeze or bend over. OK....maybe me lobbying that the reindeer are magic and eat chocolate and Pringles instead of hay and carrots needs to be filed in the "Good Idea at the Time" file, but I feel I'm being unfairly treated by the earth's gravitational pull.
Resigning myself to the fact that I can't squint and pretend I just spilled cottage cheese on my thighs anymore , I present my jiggly self to the goon at the front desk of "Jim's Gym".
I appreciate the kindly look on his face until I notice him repeatedly pushing a red panic button under the desk. Realizing the beads of sweat on his face have nothing to do with the stairmaster parked behind him, I turn just in time to see his colleague trying to fit into the broom closet while sucking back on a puffer.
Deploying my sweetest "Don't hurt me and I won't hurt you" smile, I bravely ask for directions to the change room. After eventually clarifying what his garbled sobs meant, I finally find myself in that room where control top panties come to die.
Digging through my bag, I extract a pair of gym pants made from some space-age material that I was assured would cover all my assets while allowing the material to "breathe". Pulling them over my cottage-cheese ridden thighs, I realize with horror that that's as far up as they're gonna go. Not wanting to shame myself or interrupt the front desk goons wailing the rosary, I pull my husband's favorite beer shirt down until it covers my knees and venture to the main gym.
Although offended by the horrified stares of the gym staff, I actually feel sorry for the smallest of them for getting shoved and locked out of the office while the others pulled the blinds and killed the lights. Introducing himself in a voice that sounds like a baby mouse whistling, I give "Matt" a firm handshake and stride to The Cardio Room.
Surveying what once must have been the cockpit of the space shuttle, I decide that the "Ellipse" machine is the least threatening, and climb aboard. Wanting to prove to all the skinny wenches in the room that Old Mother Hubbard can still kick their asses, I ignore Matt's warnings to start on Level 1 and crank the machine up to its highest volume.
Gripping the handlebars for dear life as my knee becomes airborne and connects with Matt's chin and sends him sprawling, I frantically push the "level down" button in the hopes that all my parts are still connected when it screeches to a halt. I calmly adjust my t-shirt in the giant mirror that some sadist put right in front of the machine as I wait for Matt to regain consciousness, and decide that maybe a good old-fashioned treadmill is just what I need.
Reassured that Matt can finally tell how many fingers I'm holding up, I secure the safety string to my shirt and commence strolling. Congratulating myself for my athletic prowess, I realize that this gym stuff's not so bad. I walk all the time around the house, and this is exactly like that. Except my pants only come to mid-thigh, I don't usually wheeze like this, and there's some poor guy standing beside me with his eyes rolling back in his head.
Accidentally hitting the "speed up" button as he passed out again, Matt is temporarily deposited belly-first on the treadmill with me until it catapults itself to 14 miles per hour, launching Matt backwards onto some skinny chick on a stationary bike while I find myself again hanging on for dear life.
Thinking I'm gonna be OK as my legs pinwheel like a Sylvester the Cat lawn ornament, I realize with dismay that my thigh-length space pants are squeezing their way down towards my ankles...and that the material on the space pants is the only thing on my body capable of breathing right now. Letting go of the hand grips, I press my hands against my thighs as hard as I can while duck-waddling at 14 miles per hour and trying to scream for help.
Encouraged by the moans I hear from Matt behind me, I remember with glee the safety string I so smartly attached to me before turning this beast on. Bravely letting myself roll backwards until the string elicits that sweet emergency stopping mechanism, I'm only partly aware the back of my head colliding with the front of Matt's as he bravely came from behind to save me.
Once again adjusting my shirt while waiting for Matt to rejoin the world, I admit to myself that maybe a little cottage cheese never hurt no one. Helping Matt to his feet, I thank him for his assistance, but sadly explain that I won't be coming back.
With the exertion of opening the door amplifying my wheeze to a level that almost completely drowns out Matt's tearful "THANK YOU LORD JESUS"s, I try to regain some dignity by reaching under my t-shirt and hauling my space pants back to thigh level. Finally caving under the stress, the surprisingly elastic material snaps away from my body, and delivers the mother of all towel-whips to Matt's hoo-hoo's.
Abandoning my hopes of making a graceful exit, I tippy-toe past the front desk goons that I can still see despite their attempts to camouflage themselves with the decorative fake plants, disregard the fact that I look like I'm dressed in a Heineken nightgown, and gratefully slip behind the wheel of my car.
First stop....Laura Secord....
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