Emails That Don’t Tempt Me..
Mary and I walked four miles this morning. My preferred cardio is the elliptical, but we are on vacation and we have to improvise. I’m a student of elliptical machines — having foolishly purchased really cheap machines designed for very small people with short-lived New Year’s resolutions. The elliptical you need to purchase is the Octane, if you’re serious. It’s the Hobart, the Fiskars, the Berkshire-Hathaway of elliptical machines. I believe it’s guaranteed forever, but I could be wrong. The guts of the thing, the geared box of resistance and stride-changing mechanics, is considered sacred by the company. Sometimes you have to get the electronic panel replaced and sometimes you have to stand embarrassed over the dusty sweat-grit the service technician lectures you about, but it’s the real thing. Not even the Bellagio in Las Vegas buys Octanes for their guests. (It would be lost on them.) The point is — if you want solid, indoor cardio while you are watching stories of murder and mayhem on ID Discovery, you want the Octane.
Mary, for her part, is a dancer. She scours the calendar of a local jazzercise establishment for her favorite teacher, Jamie. Jamie actually figures prominently in our lives because the Riley women love the arc of her life, and the “good coach” way she gets the most out of her exercise flock. Jamie was apparently overweight at one point, so she has empathy, but she pushes her charges to the promised land, and she’s on the beat. Mary can’t take any teacher who is out of sync, or who uses the occasion to bash her husband. When my wife puts on her jazzercise gear, you might understand why we have six children. I even sourced some really sexy, wild workout clothing for her, but she returned it. I have mastered, shoe-buying as a husband, but I have a long way to go on workout clothing.
As much as I would like to share a common workout with my wife, I can’t see myself at jazzercise for a few reasons. I have become even far more self conscious about dancing than I was in my youth. I blame this on the shameless prejudice against white people dancing, which apparently isn’t even a social justice issue, so I won’t go into it any further, for fear of being flagged by that faithless platform Facebook. I also think, of course, it isn’t a manly thing to do, unlike the elliptical which is extremely manly, even though some of my weight-lifting and ranching friends disagree. No, I have a far more poignant reason: I won’t go to jazzercise because women are just too damn beautiful, especially when they’re dancing. Very good men have lost their heads over this stuff. I just love women, always have. I never went through that anti-girl thing as a little boy. When the Boy Scouts were hiking me over the Sierras, and on the far side of the lake, there was a gorgeous, raven haired hippy woman cooking bacon for her friends, I wanted to go talk to her. Enough said. I love women. I can’t do jazzercise.
Except, maybe, with Debbie Wasserman-Schultz. That wouldn’t be any problem at all.