|Posted on January 7, 2012 at 12:35 PM|
It’s January and they are all over the place. Running in traffic in the middle of theday. In big picture windows on variousmedieval contraptions with legs sprawled questionably and wires stuck in theirears. They are fresh and determined intheir spanking new duds, resolved to actually do it this time.
No, it’s not the Republican candidates. It’s all those people determined to loseweight/get in shape/exercise more/give up liquor/candy/crack/fill-in-the-blankand/or any variation on the theme of a new year filled with a new you. And they will do it—at least through earlyFebruary. Then Valentine’s Day comeswith all those cute little red and white candies and chocolate coveredstrawberries and oh, just one glass of champagne and the next thing you knowthe elliptical is a coat rack and who cares if the puppy chews up your NewBalance, there’s Cinnabons warming in the oven.
My dear friend Patti is one of those people. She has goals and she has dreams and she hasa brand new treadmill.
“I feel like Scooby Doo!” she screamed breathlessly over thephone to me. “I didn’t realize I had tolearn to walk, much less run on this thing!”
Naturally, her college-age children, Tyler and TJ have takento it like frats boys to a keg. In oneday, they have not only mastered walking and jogging at various mphs, they’vedeveloped a brother-sister Cirque de Soleil routine with the floor racingbeneath them at break-neck speed as Tyler floats high above TJ’s head while hespins her like a baton to the theme of “Ice Castles.”
Things are not much different at my house. Uncle Daniel gave Cory and Shea a DanceCentral video game for Christmas. As Iwatched my kids dancing to tunes new and old—many of which even I knew—I madethat fatal mistake. Like when I watchedCory step on a balance board. He made itlook so easy. Before I could say, “I cando tha—” I was on the ground nursing a mild concussion, scraped elbow andbruised ego. But, hey, this game hassongs from the Jackson Five and the Commodores—I know those moves!
About two minutes into my turn, Pepper comes running in thefamily room.
“They have a clogging on that?”
“NO!” I screamed breathlessly indignant. “I didn’t realize the Pointer Sisters were soserious about that “jump!” for my love.”
When my daughter Shea was doing it, she was light as feathermoving arms and feet rhythmically to the beat, nary a bead of sweat on herhead. I, on the other hand, looked likethe pilot in the movie Airplane!--drenched in sweat, wheezing and coughing as Iflung my arms in direct opposition to every move on screen. Certainly if this was back in my day, myfootwork would have made the record skip repeatedly. As it was, I noticed the big screen was jigglingalmost as much as my rear end.
If that’s not enough, the game rates you while you attemptthese impossible moves--“Perfect!” “Good” “OK” and “Did you log off?”
But, I’m not giving up--yet. My fantasy of my abilities is matched only by my determination to proveI’m still hip. So, watch out CeleryGreen and Lady Goo-Goo, here comes Big Mama!