R.T. 01-09 ~ Exercise, Who Me?

I confess. I ate my way through the holidays.

Now I have a colossal case of Mormon-Catholic guilt. Not that my two religions have anything to do with my November-December munch fest. Admittedly though, both churches have really mastered the art of “putting on a spread!” This brings me to my resolution. Now that I’ve supersized my posterior, it’s time to do something about it.

Even my hair stylist, Rachelle has very few tricks left in her bag for me. I sit in her chair and say “whatever you do, just make me look younger and thinner.” I fear I’m beyond her miracles.

So, I need to get off my posterior and MOVE! I’m certain Trina Reyes could have a field day with me! No offense Trina, but I avoid Personal Trainers. I’ve never met a lazy personal trainer who doesn’t like exercise. So, we basically have nothing in common. “You mean I have to exercise EVERY DAY? Who me?”

My mother-in law, Marj, goes to Curves almost every day. She is very committed. When she first started out, she was cautioned her to monitor her heart rate and stay in the “safe zone” for her age. She looked up and the brightly colored poster on the wall—staring at it for some time as she kept moving. She then turned to the nice Curves lady and said, “What if I’m not up there?” The Curves Target Heart Rate Chart includes movers and shakers up to age 80. Marj is 85. Why can’t I get inspiration from her?

Speaking of inspiration, I get a little every time I hear or see my radio friend, Dave. He went on some special diet and lost 50 pounds. He talks about it on the radio and you see him on billboards. And, yes, he DOES look younger and thinner.

Maybe I could use a little of my local, celebrity status to join a weight loss program and get the whole thing comped! I can see it now… “Hi, I’m Gretchen Anderson. After I ate all the turkey, ham and rib roast over the holidays, I couldn’t fit my fat arss in my ski pants…”

Rethinking it, I should hold out for something bigger. Actually, two things bigger. I’ll reserve my celebrity endorsement for new boobs. Why not? I could ski up to the camera and make the same claims—but with a newly enhanced chest.

“Hi I’m Gretchen. No one looks at how big my butt got in 2008…they just look at these! I feel better about myself, people notice me more and I have more self esteem.” Now there’s an endorsement! I’m sure there’s a plastic surgeon out there somewhere trying to think up a new marketing campaign. It’s fresh, catchy…but there’s one problem. I’m a big chicken when it comes to the prospect of anesthesia, scalpels and implants.

So, I guess it all comes back to good, old-fashioned movement and push-up bras. My resolution is to move more and spend more of Mister Man’s money at Victoria’s Secret. Hold me to it—won’t you?

MR. MAN ~ Random Thoughts from 11-08

“Why do you call your husband ‘Mr. Man’?” I was asked.

“Because it’s better manners than calling him Man Pig.”

Man Pig.

Mr. Man Pig.

Mr. Man. ... That’s how it evolved. I also call him Buster, Lovey and a couple other names. He answers to most of them.

The “Man Pig” thing emerged years ago. I was single and enjoying weekend coffees with my girlfriend, Kelly. One fine Saturday, she looked up from her latte and personal ads and proclaimed, “Men are pigs!” This statement definitely needed elaboration.

“Listen to this,” Kelly mocked. “‘Single white male, 50, looking for female. Must be 21-36, outgoing, size in proportion to weight. Send letter and PHOTOS to…blah, blah, blah.’ He’s a pig!” Kelly asserted. I pondered this awhile and determined you can find a little pigginess in all males. It’s true. Some are just a little piggier than others. Many of them are handsome. They make you coffee every morning, help the kids with their math homework and spend an inordinate amount of time multi-tasking while reading the sports page. (You would think their legs would go to sleep!)

I have a husband pig. I also have son pigs, a father pig and two over-the-top brother pigs. I even have a cousin-in-law-pig. They’re all pigs.

With a lot of time on his hands, my cousin-in-law pig decided he was going to relieve himself in every state capitol men’s room and write a book about it! He likened the project to writing a guide book to America’s Bed & Breakfasts. He started on the east coast with a notebook and a big old container of Metamucil. Charlie claims Albany, New York has a very nice men’s room—complete with marble doors and stalls. He also argues the men of Vermont have a class A men’s room in their statehouse. But, admits it may have been his urgent need to poop, as he squeezed his cheeks together while racing up the steps of the capitol! Ooh. Nasty.

Just the other day, our youngest son, Bubba, stood in front of the refrigerator for (I kid you not) five minutes. Just staring. Yep, mouth open with that pre-teen glazed look on his face. After all the cold air had escaped the fridge, he realized there was only healthy food in there. He then let out a long, rattally, truck-driver-belch and finally closed the doors. In essence, he trapped his essence in the refrigerator and walked off. I just shook my head. My husband smiled broadly, “aren’t you proud of him?” Son pig.

My sister-in-law, Punkin and her husband, Jon, were appalled when they recently visited their son’s apartment that he shares with three other young college students. “Those boys hadn’t done dishes in weeks!” she said. “Dirty plates were stacked five and six high…it was disgusting.” Not a Felix Unger in the bunch!

As I said, Man Pigs have redeeming qualities (that’s why I still live with several). I’ve always said my brothers; Nathan and Christian were just warm up acts for my husband. Don’t get me wrong, I love them all. And, I believe this information serves me, and other women like me, very
well. Knowing their degree of pigginess leads to better understanding of their maleness!