Jams and Jelly Glasses

With two healthy boys in the family, the plumber and I got to be quite good friends over the years. Still, the best story of all features Fred Flintstone. Join me at Stage of Life where our plumber friend is enjoying a flush of easy money. Yabba Dabba Do!

Sexy Back

Now that we’re dangerously close to qualifying for the senior citizen’s discount at the Pearly Gates, Bill Dear and I have decided to increase our exercise time and see if we can put off the trip to the Great Beyond so we can annoy our kids a while longer. Since our present exercise routine consists of trying to stand up after pushing the envelope by sitting and reading at the same time, our choices for aerobic potential were wide open.

We started off well, but eventually one of us started an argument by deciding that our routine would be more aerobically beneficial if we actually left our recliners. Bill Dear pouted and popped me with his cane.

After an extended period of the “who’s going to get up first game,” we joined hands and limped down the path toward cardiac health together.

Bill regarded me critically.

“Is your arthritis acting up?”

“No, why?” I find it’s best to humor him. He is capable of halting the whole process in favor of a debate.

“The way you’re walking reminds me of the time you tried to ride the pogo stick.”

“I almost had the hang of it, too.”

“You sure did. It’s a shame about Happy’s tail.”

“Yeah, poor thing. He was never quite as happy after that.”

“So what’s with the bump and grimace?”

“I’m trying to walk like Giselle Bundchen, the supermodel, on the cat walk.”

“Well you look like Patches, the calico, in the cat box.”

“Thanks a lot. You don’t exactly have Justin Timberlake’s smooth moves, you know.”

“Who’s Justin Timberlake?”

“He’s the one who’s bringing sexy back.”

“Sounds like he’s got a better gig than Santa Claus.”

“I think he skipped our house.”

“Darlin’, he skipped our whole street. But don’t worry.”

“Why not?”

“Somebody’s sure to return theirs to WalMart after Christmas. We’ll pick some up for half price, just in time for the New Year.”

That's what I like. A man of action at discount prices.

The Thighs Have It

I’m at the age when my thighs angrily reject fat-free muffins. “Bring us biscuits,” they sneer, spraying sparks as I walk. I would like to see daylight between my thighs just one more time before I die. I’m not planning on leaving the world of supersized fries and double-thick shakes any time soon, mind you. But it’s nice to have a goal.
So after an unfortunate career change (from having one to suddenly not having one) I decided to join the health and fitness craze and submerge myself in aerobic (free) activity. It was either that or shop for a new interview suit in the chubby department. “Let’s go walking,” I suggested to my sister, Laudy.
“Why?” she gasped, regarding me with the look she usually reserved for artificial cheese.
“Well,” I said, suddenly inspired. “If we’re out of the house, we won’t be licking crumbs from the toaster oven tray. I got a nasty burn chasing banana bread bits last time.”
So every morning we walked at the mall. We walked 20 minutes in from the parking lot to the biscuit place. Then we walked 20 minutes back to our cars, chewing thoughtfully.
“You think we should pick up our pace?” I asked one day as we strolled along.
“I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite.” She held tightly to her biscuit wrapper as two elderly ladies dressed in sweat suits shot past us, whipping up an unruly breeze.
“Well, maybe we’ve missed the point.” I brushed sausage crumbs from my stomach. “I wore corduroy pants last week and almost set my underwear on fire. Smoke was coming out of my pants leg and a waitress poured tea in my lap trying to put me out.”
Ultimately I had to give up the “walk yourself thin” health regimen touted by all the women’s magazines. I gained so much weight, I found out my stretchy pants were in cahoots with a panty girdle I’d stuffed in the sock drawer.
For the New Year, I’m tinkering with an experimental new program: The Sports Bra Allover Workout. With the startling acumen that usually alerts me to uneaten pie crust on the plates of nearby diners, I noticed that I often bust buttons off of blouses in spontaneous bursts of rapid fire. I also snap underwires like rednecks crush beer cans, only I don’t use my forehead.
Therefore I have instituted a rigorous physical training program. I plan to keep fit with a three times weekly series of stretching exercises followed by a trip to Wal-Mart to try on sports bras. Granted that this is a pastime fraught with danger, I’m going to approach my new exercise program with a certain degree of caution and respect for spandex.
Yesterday when I attempted my first fatbuster fitting, I foolishly tried to pull the treacherous garment on over my head. I exercised not only myself, but two elderly saleswomen and a security guard who thought I was trying to rob the lingerie department when the wretched thing snapped smartly around my face like a ski mask leech and wouldn’t let go. My ears stuck through the armholes and I had to chew an air passage in the doubleknit to breathe.
I may have to give up on my new exercise program, though. The store manager red-carded me and banned me from lingerie. Maybe I’ll try Victoria’s Secret. It did wonders for Heidi Klum. She’s had three children, looks great, and gets a discount on all the undergarments that fight back.