Want to Exercise? Pick Your Poison.
Sweat by Jog, Gym, or Treadmill?
Jogging the Wallet
Eau de Gym
Gyms are self-contained exercise hubs impervious to outside weather conditions and stimulating conversation. Now, I love human contact as much as the next person but would rather not pay for a club membership. In addition to the obvious expense, I refuse to get in shape next to people who have toned hard bodies with nary a ripple of fat. I’m convinced that there is a secret gym where those people go to get in shape before they join a gym . . . to get in shape.
While those hard-bodied people can wear stylish form fitting workout clothes, I have to wear fat gal clothes with fancy flap traps to hide a sagging stomach and bouncing butt. I worry every time I lift my arms that the fat folds hidden beneath the trap will unravel, frantically flopping, and possibly flattening the gal doing Pilates next to me.
No. Gyms are too stressful. Besides, I’d rather not have to smell other people’s sweat.
No Will to Treadmill
I already have enough stress from the treadmill that glares at me from the family room, a technological marvel that is both accessible and evil, as it eliminates the need for any possible human contact. It glares at me because lately I’ve been avoiding it. After only exercising for a month or two, I started skipping days, then weeks, and finally skipping past the treadmill completely and heading straight for the couch where I routinely exercise my thumb on the remote.
I’m officially on an exercise hiatus while I reevaluate my pudgy doctor’s advice — to shape up or die.
Frankly, my doctor and working out scares me. Stretching and straining muscles is masochistic. In fact, I believe that exercising is more like exorcising and that its only purpose is to keep the mind in shape by working out limitless creative schemes in order to avoid the harmful effects of exercising.
How do you tread?
The only computer/healthcare agency equipped to handle victims of hard drive head trauma
A CUSTOMER LETTER
Dear Visiting Nerds,
After Uncle Ned, a retired Citrus Fruit Dyer, hit his head on the hard drive of his computer and passed out, I immediately got round the clock home healthcare assistance. Unfortunately, the accident rendered Uncle Ned verbally incontinent. He began to talk incessantly about computer hardware – Intel Core Processors, Motherboards, and the best utility software programs, discussing them in exhaustive detail. Uncle Ned was no longer able to speak about his favorite television shows or carry on small talk about the weather.
We took Uncle Ned to a neurologist, who diagnosed him with Gigaspeak Boreosis, an incurable condition that typically manifests itself after a hard drive head trauma. The neurologist explained that people suffering from Gigaspeak Boreosis believe they are IT specialists and will ramble on about computer tech issues they have no knowledge of, without stopping to take a breath. This inevitably causes them to pass out.
Because of Uncle Ned’s condition, he was constantly lecturing the home care nurses on the negative and positive affects of upgrading a computer’s operating system. The nurses kept falling asleep on the job, while Uncle Ned kept passing out. Not even excessive amounts of coffee and No-Doze could keep them awake. That’s when I picked up the phone and called Visiting Nerds of Silicon Valley.
Visiting Nerds is a national network of caring IT specialists equipped to handle people suffering from Gigaspeak Boreosis. The Visiting Nerd specialist caring for Uncle Ned was not only able to listen to his incessant chatter with interest but did so without ever dozing off.
The Visiting Nerd technician worked side-by-side with the home care nurse, spouting off interesting facts about computers to entertain Uncle Ned while the nurse forced him to take an occasional breath before he passed out.
In addition to being well versed in computer minutiae, a Visiting Nerd specialist has the experience to resolve any computer related issues that Uncle Ned was unable to fix. They handled the problems with such care and deft that Uncle Ned believed that he was the one who actually resolved the glitch.
Visiting Nerds are available for home bound care 24/7 and can be found on the web at vistingnerd.org, or call them anytime day or night at 1-800-get-nerd.
Thank you Visiting Nerds.
Dee Lou Janal
For My Brain
I once had a brain but it went MIA above the yondering blue where the space ships cruise in weightlessness. That’s where my brain is—somewhere in space—the final frontier—floating in a vacuum of nothingness.
In space, there is no air or reason to put on airs. Everyone looks the same hermetically sealed inside a suit, if one is lucky enough to afford a suit and fasten their brain into the helmet before it drifts away. You know the one that got away. That’s my brain orbiting over Japan, Qatar then Afghanistan.
Some starched white shirts below may think my brain is a UFO. It’s happened before. We all know about Roswell, but that didn’t end well for the extraterrestrial, a.k.a. weather balloon. They’re easy to confuse when blinded by the light of a desert moon.
Luckily, my brain is stuck in orbit circumventing the earth. Still on course. Not a chance it will plummet through the atmosphere—an ambiance of sorts without mahogany wood decor and the scent of brandy wafting from bore to bore.
Out here in space, a glorious scent is benched for a view of the first string team of shooting stars, whooshing by at the speed of light through deepest dark, except for an occasional gaseous substance, a.k.a. the sun spinning on its axis. My brain has no axis to grind, soaring above the third planet from the sun, mistaking particles below for empty souls.
If I could only see, but the fog and red tinted clouds obscure breathtaking views. I find myself pondering what I could have seen lurking beneath the convoluted atmosphere—some good, some bad, some particularly scenic overlooks off the highway.
Perhaps rocks, and grass, fragments of automobiles and shattered glass scattered across the shoulder. I can only imagine what happened to those inside—bones and more bones vibrating against flesh, as the car smashed through a barrier and tumbled around amid shrieks and prayers and what might have beens. It’s sad really. But I don’t have the luxury of pain. My brain says it best. Keep the signals pulsating from one synapses to the next, and I will continue drifting through space, orbiting above the distant place below also known as home.
A nomad would have an ironic moment while catatonically stumbling with the tumbleweeds. During such a catatonic episode, the nomad would often mistake a cactus for a water pump, attempt to turn the pump, and instead get a fistful of needles. Upon focusing on his newfangled pincushion, the realization of his error rippled through the sensory area of his brain with both glee and pain. A smile curled his lips just before he fell to the ground simultaneously writhing in pain and laughing at his ridiculous faux pas.
In the scroll, there are only several recorded instances of a nomad’s use of his dry sense of humor. One notable reference occurs in the year 1446 BC and involved Moses. After ousted from Egypt, Moses and his people met a nomad while schlepping across the desert.
Moses wrote: I saw a man of dusty visage and ragged cloth approach staggering. Upon seeing me, the man dropped to his knees and started digging in the sand with blistered hands.
“Why do you do this, my son?” I asked.
The man responded, “To plant a tree in gratitude.”
“But sir,” said Moses. “The river does not run through this arid valley.”
The man became indignant. “You are wrong. Water is plentiful here. It rushes from the limbs of a prolific growing desert plant and then trickles from my eyes.”
“Are you a God?”
“No,” replied the man. “Just a humble traveler,” and began to sob uncontrollably.
“Sir, why do you weep?”
“Because the plant that holds water is filled with needles,” at which point the man stood revealing arms and hands covered with needles and sores.
“Sir, needles protrude from every pore of your arms and hands.”
The man smiled then began to laugh raucously. “I know.”
“Why do you laugh at your pain?”
“Because sir,” he took a breath. “The water from my eyes has saved me from certain death.”
“But your arms and hands are covered with sores that seep with puss and disease that will surely kill you. How can you find humor in such dread?”
The man chuckled, caught his breath, and said, “Because it’s ironic,” then roared with laughter.
“No, it’s mad,” said Moses.
“It’s hilarious,” shrieked the man.
“No, mad.” Moses replied angrily.”
The man continued laughing until the moon rose high in the sky and he lay down and died.
Afterward Moses decreed, “Let it be written that from this day forward, any man wandering the desert wrought with fever and delusion will be known as mad.”
Over the years, storytellers retold the anecdote of Moses’ anger toward the wandering desert man’s laughter when Moses said, “No, mad,” which evolved into the condensed version known today as nomad.