That old “touch your toes” thing isn’t working for me anymore, so I thought I’d find a new exercise program.
It isn’t that I’m rejecting my toes; it’s just that I rarely see them. We don’t hang out in the same neighborhood any more and we don't have many visible body parts in common. So in the interest of personal conditioning and self improvement, I decided to swing with the new fitness craze: Pole Dancing. My family was excited for me.
“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.
“But everybody’s doing it.”
“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”
That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.
However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.
The videos I saw on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze.
Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr waving wisps of hair across my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.
It was then I realized that the pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole. It toasted my marshmallows in seconds.
My thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my behind bore the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin. Now I know why firemen wear pants that Smokey the Bear couldn't claw his way through.
Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. On the whole, it’s not
a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.
Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the summersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on the team. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning in that old tire in circles, and grinned.
At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too. It wouldn’t be so bad, though, if the blasted thing didn’t look better in those old gym shorts than I did.
Laugh
Showing posts with label gymnast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gymnast. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The Right to Assemble
Never mind Mars and Venus. There’s nothing like a do-it-yourself project to bring out the beast, er best, in both men and women. This one came in a long, flat, heavier-than-it-looks box full of parts marked with letters of the alphabet. In my euphoria at finding just the right desk for my computer after months of stalking office supply stores, I assumed everyone in the house (Bill Dear) would share my joy and jump at the chance to put my new desk together, whistling a happy tune like so many dwarves in a diamond mine. It turns out this particular mine was missing more pieces than a yard sale jigsaw puzzle.
“Where did the boys go?” Bill looked around the house as if subcontractors would pop up from behind the recliner.
“They’re both out of service. One is napping and the other is at Gumpy’s house killing zombies. You’ll get help from little shoemaking elves before you get anything out of those two.”
Luckily two enthusiastic helpers appeared suddenly in the form of our Mostly Labradors, Hunga Din and Whatzit. Hunga specializes in outdoor labor, such as supervising the weekly trip to the dump and barking at the lawn mower. Whatzit takes over the indoor chores, such as chasing stray beams of light and barking at the vacuum cleaner. Combined they are an awesome team, and in minutes they successfully scattered all the desk parts throughout the house, chewed a decorative pattern on one leg (not mine), and placed muddy paw prints on every bit of the instructions that came after the “If You Speak English” section. Thank goodness they were on the job, but if either one spoke Mandarin Chinese, that desk would have been in place within the hour.
“Don’t worry,” I chirped scraping up spare screws and particle board dust from under the coffee table. “I’ll be glad to help you.”
Bill Dear rubbed his face, a sure sign that he was counting his blessings.
“What do we do first?” I asked, waving a hammer. I try to be patient, but the man is something of a slow starter. He insisted on inventorying the parts and locating the instructions. Meanwhile I practiced my hammering on a scrap of artificial woodgrained paneling-type material. Lord knows, they name office furniture parts like they name snack food. The first time I came across macaroni and cheese product with artificial nondairy flavoring, I thought it came from the toy store.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Bill Dear is given to hysteria when confronted with a take-charge woman.
“Practicing my hammering,” I answered, holding the panel up for inspection. I have to admit I was pleased with the results.
“Great.” More face rubbing.
I smiled contentedly.
“Except that you used the nails we need to put the backs on the drawers, and you filled the modesty panel full of holes.”
He never appreciates anything I do. No wonder nobody wants to help.
“Here.” He handed me a sheaf of paper approximately the size of War and Peace. “Tell me what to do next.”
“Well, take these instructions and. . .”
“Watch it.”
“I was going to say wipe them off. They’re covered in muddy pawprints. I can’t tell where to insert Part B.”
Bill made strangling sounds. I decided he must need a drink of water, so I got up and carefully made my way to the kitchen.
“Would you stop kicking stuff out of the way?”
About that time I hit a spot that was supposed to be carpet, but turned out to be cardboard box, slick as Elvis’s hairdo and long as a mullet. I surfed the living room deep-pile like a seasoned pro at Big Sur, dismounted with a somersault at the hallway, and threw my hands in the air like an Olympic gymnast after a solid gold vault.
Bill Dear was neck deep in my file drawer. “Hand me the specialty screwdriver on the table, will ya?”
“Star?”
“Well that was a great landing, but I wouldn’t turn pro.”
Next time I’m paying extra to have the store put my purchase together and deliver it.
The right to assemble puts a serious damper on my pursuit of happiness.
“Where did the boys go?” Bill looked around the house as if subcontractors would pop up from behind the recliner.
“They’re both out of service. One is napping and the other is at Gumpy’s house killing zombies. You’ll get help from little shoemaking elves before you get anything out of those two.”
Luckily two enthusiastic helpers appeared suddenly in the form of our Mostly Labradors, Hunga Din and Whatzit. Hunga specializes in outdoor labor, such as supervising the weekly trip to the dump and barking at the lawn mower. Whatzit takes over the indoor chores, such as chasing stray beams of light and barking at the vacuum cleaner. Combined they are an awesome team, and in minutes they successfully scattered all the desk parts throughout the house, chewed a decorative pattern on one leg (not mine), and placed muddy paw prints on every bit of the instructions that came after the “If You Speak English” section. Thank goodness they were on the job, but if either one spoke Mandarin Chinese, that desk would have been in place within the hour.
“Don’t worry,” I chirped scraping up spare screws and particle board dust from under the coffee table. “I’ll be glad to help you.”
Bill Dear rubbed his face, a sure sign that he was counting his blessings.
“What do we do first?” I asked, waving a hammer. I try to be patient, but the man is something of a slow starter. He insisted on inventorying the parts and locating the instructions. Meanwhile I practiced my hammering on a scrap of artificial woodgrained paneling-type material. Lord knows, they name office furniture parts like they name snack food. The first time I came across macaroni and cheese product with artificial nondairy flavoring, I thought it came from the toy store.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Bill Dear is given to hysteria when confronted with a take-charge woman.
“Practicing my hammering,” I answered, holding the panel up for inspection. I have to admit I was pleased with the results.
“Great.” More face rubbing.
I smiled contentedly.
“Except that you used the nails we need to put the backs on the drawers, and you filled the modesty panel full of holes.”
He never appreciates anything I do. No wonder nobody wants to help.
“Here.” He handed me a sheaf of paper approximately the size of War and Peace. “Tell me what to do next.”
“Well, take these instructions and. . .”
“Watch it.”
“I was going to say wipe them off. They’re covered in muddy pawprints. I can’t tell where to insert Part B.”
Bill made strangling sounds. I decided he must need a drink of water, so I got up and carefully made my way to the kitchen.
“Would you stop kicking stuff out of the way?”
About that time I hit a spot that was supposed to be carpet, but turned out to be cardboard box, slick as Elvis’s hairdo and long as a mullet. I surfed the living room deep-pile like a seasoned pro at Big Sur, dismounted with a somersault at the hallway, and threw my hands in the air like an Olympic gymnast after a solid gold vault.
Bill Dear was neck deep in my file drawer. “Hand me the specialty screwdriver on the table, will ya?”
“Star?”
“Well that was a great landing, but I wouldn’t turn pro.”
Next time I’m paying extra to have the store put my purchase together and deliver it.
The right to assemble puts a serious damper on my pursuit of happiness.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Gimme a V!
Now that the economy has taken a downward turn and I could afford gas if I had any money left after I hit the McDonald’s dollar menu, I’ve begun to worry about some of the staples of American life. I’m an industrious girl and could scratch out a living fashioning pet toys out of melamine if my job moved to China, but what will happen to those among us who have dedicated their lives to a single profession that is inherent to native soil?
Here my thoughts turn to Vanna White, our golden girl who simultaneously wears unattractive clothes and turns letters on Wheel of Fortune’s lighted screen, and I worry that some offshore prodigy, raised on phonetics and loose translations, might come along and steal Vanna’s job security. Worker’s Compensation couldn’t cover the psychological loss of finding out that all the vowels have been sold to a foreign conglomerate.
At night, I toss and turn but I can’t get any z’s. When I finally fall asleep, I have terrible alphabetical nightmares. I know the threat to our Vanna does not come only from the teeming shores of the land where Olympic gymnasts stay 16 forever. There is an even greater threat here on our home shores.
Texting. It’s the the silent killer. Our country is all thumbs in its desire communicate. These days preschoolers can string together more words on toy telephones during commercial breaks than poor Vanna can do in a half hour show. Before long Gerber will make a baby bottle with a pull-out Qwerty keyboard. In a field where Vanna pioneered the “turn, point, and clap maneuver,” anybody with a cell phone can duplicate her on-the-job experience.
It’s not that I’m envious of Vanna. If I had a job description that read like the prospectus for Sesame Street (This job was brought to you by he letter M), I’d make the most of it, too. So I’m going to practice my “Person, Place, Thing, or Phrase” lettering just in case Vanna needs a little help. I don’t have a cell phone, though, so I’m training on the adding machine. If Pat Sajak doesn’t need me, I can always get a job ringing up orders from the McDonald’s dollar menu.
Here my thoughts turn to Vanna White, our golden girl who simultaneously wears unattractive clothes and turns letters on Wheel of Fortune’s lighted screen, and I worry that some offshore prodigy, raised on phonetics and loose translations, might come along and steal Vanna’s job security. Worker’s Compensation couldn’t cover the psychological loss of finding out that all the vowels have been sold to a foreign conglomerate.
At night, I toss and turn but I can’t get any z’s. When I finally fall asleep, I have terrible alphabetical nightmares. I know the threat to our Vanna does not come only from the teeming shores of the land where Olympic gymnasts stay 16 forever. There is an even greater threat here on our home shores.
Texting. It’s the the silent killer. Our country is all thumbs in its desire communicate. These days preschoolers can string together more words on toy telephones during commercial breaks than poor Vanna can do in a half hour show. Before long Gerber will make a baby bottle with a pull-out Qwerty keyboard. In a field where Vanna pioneered the “turn, point, and clap maneuver,” anybody with a cell phone can duplicate her on-the-job experience.
It’s not that I’m envious of Vanna. If I had a job description that read like the prospectus for Sesame Street (This job was brought to you by he letter M), I’d make the most of it, too. So I’m going to practice my “Person, Place, Thing, or Phrase” lettering just in case Vanna needs a little help. I don’t have a cell phone, though, so I’m training on the adding machine. If Pat Sajak doesn’t need me, I can always get a job ringing up orders from the McDonald’s dollar menu.
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