Bowl Bound or Busted

If you thought exercising in front of the kids when they were little was a Stephen King movie waiting to happen, you'll find that working out in front of teenagers is like hanging your handwashables out to dry across the information superhighway. If there’s not a video of your behind crouched in a downward dog position on YouTube before you’re done with the stretches, these kids think they’re not doing their job.

At least when the children were six, they would make entertaining attempts to do the exercises with me. Today they take pictures with their cell phones and compose humorous captions before texting them to distant relatives and global news sites.

And they’re not afraid to broadcast interesting body fat tidbits. When the kids were little they said things like, “Who is that lady on the video?” (That’s Richard Simmons, Sweetie.) Where did your belly button go? (It disappeared about the time I sent out the birth announcements.)

These days they say things like, “Is that a hula hoop or a belt?” Since I’m wedged into the thing like preteens in the front row of a Taylor Swift concert, I don’t have a clever answer ready. I’m more concerned with getting the plastic wedgie out from under my lung so I can breathe. Having a playground toy jammed through my ribcage like a pierced earring is not a good look for me. I know. I saw the "After" shots on the FAIL blog.

The last time I let my band of ruffians, er teenage citizens, in the house while I was doing my bellydance workout, I checked my FaceBook page later only to find out I’d been sponsored by Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig had ignored my friend request, and an anonymous poster left ten tips to a bikini-ready body written in a sarcastic font.

Then one day a host of fleshy cherubs in workout gear appeared before me on my 48 inch plasma screen. I thought it was The Biggest Loser, Angel Edition. “We saw you on You Tube and decided you needed some help. Seek out the promised land!”

That’s the day I packed up my workout gear and headed to my own turf. These days it’s kind of hard to do squats without flushing the toilet, or perform proper lunges without knocking the shower massage into nail-driver position, but I can exercise without the benefit of back seat drivers.

Now if I could just get the Tidy Bowl man to stop heckling me from the cheap seats.

Dragons Ho!

“You’re a thief and a rogue.”

“I’m a people person!”

It’s kind of a glass half full discussion between species. The guys are playing Dungeons and Dragons with Bill Dear, a Dragon from way back.

One has lost an arm, one has been tenderized with a meat cleaver, and one has suffered a paper cut while filling out his character form. It doesn’t look good for propagation of the species. If Darwin’s theory is accurate, this planet is going to be populated by broadsword-wielding elves before I have grandchildren. Of course, if they look anything like Orlando Bloom’s Legolas in Lord of the Rings, I don’t have a problem with this plan.

So far it’s taken an hour to decide who’s who. The same thing happens every day with Hollywood royalty. If everybody there is two degrees from Kevin Bacon, these guys are all related to Mr. Ed, the talking horse. Here in the kitchen, I haven’t noticed anybody that’s liable to end up with a star on the Adventurer’s Walk of Fame.

One player gathers up all the dice and rolls. They hit the table and there’s more numbers scattered across the imitation woodgrain than on all the tombstones in a country graveyard. Everyone groans. Apparently the luck of the roll left our rogue out of the gene pool when it comes to strength. What we have is a tough guy that would lose in a street fight with Richard Simmons.

Another roll of the dice and the character has approximately the same IQ as a cabbage. I think the same thing happened with my Aunt Edna. She was always terribly sweet, but let’s just say the needle on her compass never pointed True North.

The characters are gathered around the table, eagerly poised on the edge of a great adventure.

I just hope they have a better compass than Aunt Edna or they'll never get out of the kitchen.