"You haven’t exercised in ten years," My sister, seated on the couch behind me, cracked open another chocolate bar. "A couple of downward dogs aren’t going to help you now. Besides, it looks like those puppies are on the loose. Dogfighting is illegal, immoral, and—especially in this case—exceedingly unattractive.”
Some things, such as swimming against an undertow, require a buddy. And if I’m ever in that situation, Sis is the one I want with me. She’d feel right at home with the sharks.
Today, I wish she’d find a feeding frenzy somewhere else. I gaze down where my toes should be. Perhaps Yoga isn’t the right form of exercise for me. The only thing about me that stretches is the gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
With visions of myself in a flirty white skirt, I decide to try the virtual tennis competition on the boys’ video game. I attempt a saucy backhand, send the controller flying, and nail my sister so hard in the face that she has a Pause button imprinted on her forehead. I resist the urge to press the thing to see if it works.
Nobody warned me about the dangers of virtual sports. Before the day is over, I’ve got tennis elbow, swimmer’s ear, and I’m signed up for a guest shot on House as a candidate for mysterious complications from Tommy John surgery.
“Why don’t you make a video of yourself trying to zip your jeans and hold out for a part in WrestleMania?” she smirked.
I grinned, “And I’ve got a show for you too.”
“And that is. . .”
“The Biggest Loser. You're a natural.”
Laugh
Showing posts with label virtual. Show all posts
Showing posts with label virtual. Show all posts
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Monday, February 23, 2009
Duck and Wiicover
When it comes to home entertainment systems, the Nintendo Wii is the best bet for indiscriminate head injuries I’ve ever encountered.
Now that there’s a video game that doesn’t require knowledge of the access code for disarming thermonuclear missiles in order to work the controller, millions of people around the globe are dropping their weapons of mass entertainment and turning to the Wii.
Personally, I appreciate the fact that any six year old can map out new nations using the XBox 360 or any of the PlayStation stable, but I’m past the age where bending over to tie my shoes can be accomplished without the aid of a small child and a first responder in an emergency vehicle . Dadgummit, I need help. So under the guise of rewarding good grades and the relief of high school graduation, we bought a Wii.
No longer forced to live life as a virtual spectator, I picked up my plastic controller and dove right into Wii Sports. The first day I came down with tennis elbow, pulled a hamstring, and bruised a bowl of Golden Delicious Apples that were loitering menacingly on the coffee table.
Sure there are some problem areas. I have trouble remembering to push the A button to start ("The big, round button under your thumb, Mom."), and I have trouble focusing on the play instead of watching the cute character on screen cavort around the court in her spiffy duds, but after that I’m home free.
Eventually through trial and broken glass, I discovered that it’s best to use the wrist strap to prevent unwanted projectile activity. It’s altogether unsettling to clock the dog in the head yet again with an errant game controller that flies across the living room as if it were on a nonstop flight to Paris. Then you have to stop the game in the middle of a set to transport the Labrador, who is holding a damp cloth to his forehead with one paw and muttering unkind words about your aim, to the vet. I have to admit to some feelings of guilt that he's given up retrieving because of a bit of bad aim on my part.
I don’t know about you, but there’s nobody like family to spout sarcastic comments and unkind advice when you’re trying your hand at a new activity, although I think the dog is very fetching in the new pith helmet, in spite of the obvious sarcastic implications. It fits a little tight around the ears and he’s somewhat wary of the chin strap, but it fits in just fine when he hides under the coffee table to phone his therapist.
The latest casualty was Bill Dear, but it seems like a grown man with dozens of years experience working with high voltage machinery would be aware of the dangers of an unsecured battery compartment door. Upon unpacking the system, the children had, as required by law, lost the little piece of plastic that keeps batteries neatly in place and, strictly against OSHA standards, secured the batteries in place with an unregulated rubber band.
My enthusiastic backswing launched a volley of battery bullets that took out the ugly lamp from his bachelor days, six wide-eyed Precious Moments figurines, and a Girl Scout delivering cookies at the side door. Bill just managed to avoid the rocket by executing a double somersault with a half twist over the back of the couch, which would have been Olympic gold material if he had left the ceiling fan in working order and managed to keep his feet together on the landing.
All in all, everything has worked out quite nicely. I got a new lamp, Bill Dear is expecting to be able to return to work next week and the dog has become quite attached to the technicians at the vet’s office.
Now that there’s a video game that doesn’t require knowledge of the access code for disarming thermonuclear missiles in order to work the controller, millions of people around the globe are dropping their weapons of mass entertainment and turning to the Wii.
Personally, I appreciate the fact that any six year old can map out new nations using the XBox 360 or any of the PlayStation stable, but I’m past the age where bending over to tie my shoes can be accomplished without the aid of a small child and a first responder in an emergency vehicle . Dadgummit, I need help. So under the guise of rewarding good grades and the relief of high school graduation, we bought a Wii.
No longer forced to live life as a virtual spectator, I picked up my plastic controller and dove right into Wii Sports. The first day I came down with tennis elbow, pulled a hamstring, and bruised a bowl of Golden Delicious Apples that were loitering menacingly on the coffee table.
Sure there are some problem areas. I have trouble remembering to push the A button to start ("The big, round button under your thumb, Mom."), and I have trouble focusing on the play instead of watching the cute character on screen cavort around the court in her spiffy duds, but after that I’m home free.
Eventually through trial and broken glass, I discovered that it’s best to use the wrist strap to prevent unwanted projectile activity. It’s altogether unsettling to clock the dog in the head yet again with an errant game controller that flies across the living room as if it were on a nonstop flight to Paris. Then you have to stop the game in the middle of a set to transport the Labrador, who is holding a damp cloth to his forehead with one paw and muttering unkind words about your aim, to the vet. I have to admit to some feelings of guilt that he's given up retrieving because of a bit of bad aim on my part.
I don’t know about you, but there’s nobody like family to spout sarcastic comments and unkind advice when you’re trying your hand at a new activity, although I think the dog is very fetching in the new pith helmet, in spite of the obvious sarcastic implications. It fits a little tight around the ears and he’s somewhat wary of the chin strap, but it fits in just fine when he hides under the coffee table to phone his therapist.
The latest casualty was Bill Dear, but it seems like a grown man with dozens of years experience working with high voltage machinery would be aware of the dangers of an unsecured battery compartment door. Upon unpacking the system, the children had, as required by law, lost the little piece of plastic that keeps batteries neatly in place and, strictly against OSHA standards, secured the batteries in place with an unregulated rubber band.
My enthusiastic backswing launched a volley of battery bullets that took out the ugly lamp from his bachelor days, six wide-eyed Precious Moments figurines, and a Girl Scout delivering cookies at the side door. Bill just managed to avoid the rocket by executing a double somersault with a half twist over the back of the couch, which would have been Olympic gold material if he had left the ceiling fan in working order and managed to keep his feet together on the landing.
All in all, everything has worked out quite nicely. I got a new lamp, Bill Dear is expecting to be able to return to work next week and the dog has become quite attached to the technicians at the vet’s office.
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