Monday, September 19, 2011


So, I have a membership at this really great gym. It’s that one decorated all in purple and yellow that passes no judgment and just encourages members to come in and have fun. It’s been some time since I was last there. Over the last three weeks or so, my excuse has been that I had to be out and about promoting myself and hopefully encouraging people to VOTE for me at to win a billboard in Times Square with my face on it. We won’t mention the other 365 days that I might have missed, thankful of course that when I do/did return, no judgment was passed especially since I’ve paid faithfully every month without complaint or refund for being a non-show.

But this morning I was determined to get back to my exercise routine to tighten up some stuff that has started to jiggle and to tame the other stuff that’s determined not to fit into my favorite pair of denim jeans. Back in the gym though I was quickly reminded why I stopped going.

I hate exercise. I hate it with a passion that exceeds all comprehension. I reserve sweating for mind-blowing sex and only mind-blowing sex. I have no desire to sweat at any other time and definitely not while I’m on a treadmill next to an adolescent half my age and a third my size. But I plunged head first into an exercise routine designed by the cutest little trainer who’s old enough to be my child and I did it with a smile. When all was said and done I left feeling accomplished and thankful that my baby boy had left me with his Zune player and playlists of some really great music.

Really great music just transforms my disposition. It transformed that hatred for exercise into a strong dislike.  And it got me through a really great sweat.  It wasn’t mind-blowing but it put that jiggle on some serious notice.

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