Tongue-In-Cheek … Foot-In-Mouth

If you stepped out of the shower and your mirror shielded its eyes and screamed: “OH LORD!  PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!  MY EYES!  MY EYES!  DOES ANYONE KNOW A GOOD OPTOMETRIST?” and then took out a restraining order against you; it might be time for you to seriously consider working out on a fulltime basis.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit here.  My mirror did not cover its eyes or scream; mirrors can’t do that.  But it did contact the authorities and I have the summons and bail receipt to prove it.

So anyway, prior to that mirror mocking midsection moment, my chief form of exercising was to enter Market Basket, pick up a copy of “Men’s Fitness,” because they were usually located next to the potato chip aisle, and put it back down, which constituted one good strenuous rep, known in the workout world as a “curl,” which was enough exercise for me, although, evidently, it was not enough for my loudmouth looking glass.

But the main setback when it comes to exercising is that exercising requires you—follow me closely—to move.  And moving is the basic cornerstone of working out, which goes against my basic cornerstone of NOT moving unless it is absolutely necessary like, if the couch were on fire.

However, to stop my mirror from speed dialing the Attorney General’s Office filing faults about my form, I resorted to purchasing an abdominal machine from an infomercial, which looked like it would work wonders on my abs.  And I can say this with complete confidence because the male model demonstrating the equipment had a midsection which can best be described as a “ripped” “cut” “sexy” xylophone sitting where his stomach used to be, if you like that sort of “ripped” “cut” “sexy” xylophone-stomach thing.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not in the habit of looking at men’s midsections, not that there is anything wrong with that (thanks Jerry Seinfeld for that one).  But my wife, who comes equipped with two “XX” chromosomes, found on her DNA double helix, which is located next to her tonsils, does enjoy glancing at the occasional male fit physique, as evidenced by the fact that when she stepped into the living room and looked at the television set, she gasped, reeled her tongue in, screwed her eyeballs back into her head, dove for the phone, quickly dialed the number, and in a mature manner began jumping up and down like a schoolgirl with a crush telling her cousin Wendy to “DROP WHATEVER IT IS YOU ARE  DOING AND PUT ON THE QVC CHANNEL NOW!  NOW!  NOW! GO GIRL GOOOOO!  YOU HAVE GOT TO SEE THIS GUYS STOMACH!  TALK ABOUT WASHBOARDS!  YOU COULD DO A YEARS WORTH OF LAUNDRY ON HIS OBLIQUES ALONE!” Then they both started making plans to elope with their television sets.

Not being the jealous type or anything, I bought one of these abdominal appliances, and I quickly found out that I had not been paying close enough attention to the male model, because when he was sit-upping away, he was smiling, laughing, gently rocking back and forth as he cut and ripped even deeper cuts and rips into his ALREADY cut and ripped sexy abs (if you like that sort of cut ripped sexy ab thing) for women to drool and daydream over.

BUT when I climbed onto this crunching contraption there was no smiling, there was no laughing, there was no gentle rocking, and the only deep cutting and ripping were in the forms of deep lacerations to my neck, which occurred after the handlebars collapsed and I got my head stuck in-between the seat and the pulley mechanism, and every time I crunched, by which I mean squirmed to free myself, the pulley would wrap around my head and gouge out another section of my neck.

This went on for about twenty minutes, which, coincidentally is the exact amount of recommended time for beginners to try and kill themselves on this piece of conditioning crap.  But amazingly, when I did finally manage to escape from its cruel clutches, I had no pain in my abs; I was not experiencing any discomfort in my stomach; I didn’t have any soreness in my midsection until around, oh, say, 3 AM at which time I swear a hippopotamus tiptoed into my bedroom and used my stomach as a trampoline.  And I say this because my stomach seized a mighty seize, clinched up real tight, and I rolled off of the bed and formed a painful knotted up hump on the floor.

After a week or so of walking hunched over and sideways like a crab, and only being able to talk to people’s shoes, I announced to the ground “Abdominals Shmabdominals!  The only six packs in this house from now on will have the word ‘Budweiser’ on it!”

Well, enough already about abdominal obsessions.  Anyway, I have to go.  My wife and our television set just got back from their honeymoon, and I’m dying to see their vacation picture-in-pictures.