Monday, January 6, 2014


     If God meant for me to be a cocktail table, he would have put some hors d’oeuvres in my femurs. Planking is some sadistic trainer’s idea of flexing every muscle in our entire body at the same time, I assume, in an effort to tone. Tone/shmone. This is hard. One of my almost 70-friends said, “Oh, you think that’s hard?” I wanted to throw my haricot vert right into her left green-mascared eyeball. “Yes, I think that’s hard,” I replied clenching my garlic mashed. “How many minutes can you hold it?” I asked, foolishly. (Writing coach, bite me--I used an adverb nahnahnahnahnahnah) Friend answers,”Oh, I can go at least three or four minutes.” “Wow,” I say, white drool reaching my chin.

     My trainer wanted me to do ten sets of 30-count each. “Are you effen kidding me?” I asked. “I’ll do anything, but no planking.” I turned my tight little tush and twerked all the way to the upright row machine.

     My daughter introduced me to planking several years ago when she took a picture of herself planking on top of the Sears Building in Chicago. It was a funny picture. No inspiration follow-up. The little bitch planks, contorts, Brazilian butt lifts and Lord knows what else. I’m a grown woman with weak sphincter muscles. What do people expect of me?

     Ten years ago, I was told that “mature” women should engage in weekly weight resistance training to maintain muscle strength. Stupid me, I signed up. I’ve been lifting ten and fifteen pound puppies five to six times a week, and for what? A few muscles that show through my crepe? I could make suzettes out of my upper arms, and I have muscles that a ten-year-old would die for. My bone density test came back “worse than ever.” Great. Just great. That only exacerbates the angst I have been feeling since the doc told me no more alcohol. I think someone is out to get me. 

     So what do you think? To celebrate my good news, I am going to get down on all fours, do the cocktail table crunch, toot and count? I don’t think so.
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