Don't Sleep With a Bubba

by Susan Reinhardt

  When I finally broke down on January 2 and weighed, the bathroom scales set a home record. I heard cries from within the strained dial as it continued climbing to new heights.

  Desperate and nearly defeated, I recalibrated, pushing the dial back a couple of pounds. The next day, I weighed again, hoping to be 2 pounds lighter. Instead, I weighed the same, upping the grand postholiday total to nearly 10 pounds—the equivalent of a small piglet or a fully operational second stomach. I named the new organ The Unwanted Mass, TUM for short, and have vowed to remove it by April 15—Tax Day deadline.

  I vowed to do the dreaded task: exercise. I knew the first step toward losing weight is just that—a step. Lots of them. Walking until the rubber smokes from the sneakers and sweat drips from each of one’s chins.

  Some people join gyms. I’ve been a member of at least half a dozen over the years, the latest of which I attended only seven times in 2005. I used these excuses: It’s too far from home. There’s never any parking unless your car will climb trees. They oversold. Men lurk and some even have erections while bench pressing, which makes me want to vomit. Women walk around naked, no matter how rhinoish their hides. They don’t shave their regions and carry on conversations with others, their possums in full view and in need of a weedeater.

  The next year I broke down and joined a new gym where no menfolk were allowed. Heaving hunks were a plentiful sight at the Old Gym. They might be a nice distraction, but more than a few would hog the good equipment and ogle the young Single-Stomach girls. This made the Dual-Stomach women feel blue and likely to consume KFC and hit the DQ. They’d also leave their sweat and stench on the benches, forgetting to spray and wipe, same as when they don’t lower the seat lid on a toilet and piss has flown everywhere. I’m not speaking about all men. I’m sure if you’re a man reading this, you are ultraclean and conscientious, and never have a hard-on while on the StairMaster.

  With the new all-women’s gym, I’d gone every day for a week, dutifully putting in time and effort. So imagine the shock when the following Sunday morning I reweighed, expecting to see fewer digits on the scales and instead another pound flashed. Where is the justice in this?

  Depressed and angry, I opened a can of Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls and slathered on the icing. Each pastry had 400 calories. I ate two. One for each stomach.

  Since regular heart-pumping weight training exercises didn’t seem to light a fire in my brain or heart, I decided to join the hip and serene and try yoga, figuring never judge something until you try it. And not just once. Try it at least six times before adopting an opinion.

  When I told Mama and Daddy I was going to do some yoga, they said, “Does this mean you’re going to become a Scientologist next?” They must think yoga and Scientology are for celebrities and freaks.

  I said nothing, but a few days later had my sixth yoga class, and I have to admit, I don’t fit in. Something about the mascara and plastic-banana hair clip and the Wal-Mart bag that housed my sneakers and socks all added up to yoga no-no’s.

  When my husband, Tidy Stu, called the other day and said, “Should I meet you with the kids at aerobics?” I answered, “No, I’ll be going to the yoga class.” I felt so Zen and trendy saying the word “yoga.” I imagined Gwyneth and Cher and Madonna, all yogaing their way into radiant litheness.

  “Yoga?” he screamed.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s so…so…granola. That’s what everyone does every morning at the LEAF Festival.”

  He was talking about a massive festival in Black Mountain, North Carolina, where the shower-free crowd camps and plays drums and talks about peace and love, guzzling soy or wheat beer by day and puffing reefer by night.

  After these six sessions of Flow Yoga, I can honestly say, yes, it is earthy. But often that’s exactly what a harried working woman needs. Forget tight fannies and six-pack abs. At this point, I’d settle for a two-pack. Yoga class is the one place I can go and not have to worry if my breath reeks of onion or garlic. The collective and ultradeep inhalations of the Downward-Facing Dog crowd are redolent of root and herb glory. The aroma is one swimming in pungent BO and patchouli and the occasional release of gases.

  One man in the class would NOT stop farting because, as he later told the teacher, “It’s my body’s NATURAL way of releasing toxins.”

  Yoga class is also the one place I can go and not fret that I haven’t shaved in three days. Most participants haven’t seen a razor since the Daisy first hit the market in the 70s. Yogamites are by and large a natural lot, a tranquil group who live in harmony with the world. Bless their chaturanga’d hearts.

  Several of the participants, when not moaning and farting, would tie bandannas around their bountiful manes of dreadlocks, these Mufasas of the yoga world.

  For those who aren’t familiar with this ancient practice of strengthening and stretching, yoga classes typically begin with lots of shut-eye and breathing. Much of the focus centers on quieting the mind and stimulating the inner organs toward better functioning.

  It is a far cry from the thundering, pounding, stomping and stepping in those power classes where people wear makeup and tend to shave.

  Truthfully, during yoga classes, I felt like I didn’t belong, like an imposter among all the lotus posing and humming. My mind raced. I looked around the room. Chests rose and fell with deep, healing breaths. Eyes closed. It was a wonderful workout for those who can sit still and shut up, but I’m a fidgeter, and as we finished, the lovely instructor turned off the lights and stealthily crept around the room, massaging the random head. When she got to mine, I let out a squawk, unaware that she was anywhere near.

  For some twisted reason, I kept peeping to see if she’d rub a Mufasa’s head, which isn’t good for inner peace, but I just couldn’t help myself. At the end of the session when the lights flicked back on, I spotted my charming friend Heather. Heather is an Earth Mama on the outside but a country bumpkin by birth.

  “Hey, girl,” I said, disturbing the peace. “I thought for a moment I was the only redneck in here.” A hairy woman laughed beatifically.

  “No,” Heather said, misting like a dewy Earth Goddess. “I’m here. I brought my mama one day. I was scared to death she was going to show up in her favorite lime green tube top and come before the dentist got her new teeth put in.”

  Over the summer, busy with a freelance writing project, I decided to see what would happen to the body if one tossed exercise aside including yoga.

  Sugahs, it’s not pretty. I became a garden overgrown, sprouting bumps and gourds, a compost pile of flesh where puckers and dents dominated the terrain. One day my daughter decided to point out all my figure flaws. Well, if that’s not enough to get a woman off her whoopsie daisy, what is?

  In the end, I had to face the truth, should such be mined to its full depths. I did NOT want to exercise in public. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Apparently, I’m not the only woman who starts up exercise plans and ditches them quicker than they do boyfriends in El Caminos.

  I was in Wal-Mart with Mama the other day when she ran into one of her oldest friends.

  “How in the world are ya doin’, hon?” Mama asked.

  “I’m OK, I guess. Just been swelling a lot, got The Bloat, you know. I sure hate puffing up. Makes me mean.”

  I know all about the evils of The Bloat, which tends to appear shortly after Halloween and clings throughout the winter, meaning none of my clothes fit except those nasty elastic garments.

  I don’t know any men who contract The Bloat. They just swell and stay blown up for good,
unless the wife restricts caloric intake and carts His Heftiness off to Weight Watchers or the YMCA.

  Whenever The Bloat wedges its water-retaining claws beneath my skin, you can bet the witch-switch is flipped. Nobody’s nice under such conditions. Nobody.

  There is good news, though, and I’m here to bring it on.

  A headline appeared on Mama’s computer screen that said, “ SURPRISE ! SOME BODY FAT IS A GOOD THING .”

  According to an article, not all body fat is created equal. Here’s the deal, people. Fat in the tummy is deadly and increases one’s chances of a big old myocardial infarction, also known as a heart attack. Yet we precious pork lassies who are somehow able to “channel” the fat into the arms, thighs, hips and buttocks are not only less likely to croak, but more likely to live longer than our Twiggy counterparts.

  Research published in Circulation , a journal published by the American Heart Association, says full-figured gals are less likely to have plaque-clogged arteries than are women whose weight is concentrated in the abdominal area.

  When the fat is spread all around, something researchers call peripheral fat, this may even have a protective effect. The news, however, is not a free ticket to the pig trough. Reason being, we cannot direct our bodies to ship fat to certain locations and avoid others.

  I say this new information opens the market wide for anyone claiming to be a professional Fat Channeler, those who can either spook or coax the fat toward arm pouches and inner-thigh swags, or who can tell us how to prevent our fried foods from puddling in our midsections.

  A Fat Channeler or Fat Whisperer could make a fortune on those of us who don’t have the luxury of peripheral fat but have tummies like Buddha’s. Wouldn’t it be nice to hire a Fat Channeler? I’ll bet Oprah has one. Or is getting one for Christmas.

  Just as I was about to truly give up all exercise efforts for good, I read about a new strategy. Tone up at the office. No gym involved, no naked people, erections, sweaty machinery or changing of clothes.

  The article said go to work dressed as one normally would, and use different parts of the environment and furnishings as posts in which to get firm and healthy.

  I chose the weekly editors’ meeting for a start, because the chairs have armrests.

  Dip. Press. Dip. Press. Just another awkward moment at my workplace.

  “What’s wrong with you?” a coworker asked, taking me by surprise. “Are you trying to have a close personal relationship with that chair’s cushion?”

  Ceasing all motion, I caught my breath. “I…er…This is…um…good for toning the upper body, the triceps, if you suffer from Triceps Genetic Anomaly 14.”

  She shook her head, tapped her pencil and went about her business, probably thinking what she always does: “that’s one strange chick.”

  It’s all the fault of the two people who anonymously keep sending me subscriptions to Reader’s Digest and Prevention magazine. Every month these magazines feature diets and exercise tips, and lately they’ve gotten downright bizarre. Used to be a person could pick up a mag and rest assured that the best way to get fit is to buy some good tennis shoes and break a decent sweat.

  But the editors of these publications have caught on. They know we’re lazy. They know many of us don’t have an hour every day to hit the gym and huff our way into aerobic health.

  Headlines in recent issues of magazines ran along these latest trends: THE NEW WAY TO LOSE WEIGHT —50 HABITS OF

  “ NATURALLY THIN ” PEOPLE . It was too tempting to pass up.

  This is where the office dips and presses came into play along with the afternoon meeting fiasco. Everyone was gathered around the big table discussing important stories to be written. I was thinking about the 50 Habits of “Naturally Thin” People and decided that this was the ideal occasion to place my hands against the armchair and go for some triceps dips.

  Dip. Press. Dip. Press.

  My editor looked up from her important papers. “Is something wrong with that chair? I’ve noticed you’re doing quite a bit of bobbing, Susan.”

  “Oh. Well. That’s just one of the secrets of ‘naturally thin’ people I was trying out.”

  She quickly snorted and turned to another reporter, trying to forget I was in the room, which is pretty normal regardless of what I’m doing.

  While they talked business, I was thinking about the other exercises a person is supposed to do while in her office to blast away flapping, untoned muscles. Here’s how one goes about it, according to the story:

  “While you’re at your desk chair, pretend you’re going to sit but don’t! Stop and come back up without using your arms.”

  Imagine that. And they say to repeat this ten to twenty times. I’m sure my colleagues would just as soon see Richard Simmons in a pair of short-shorts and fake tan (we really did see him one time) than witness a coworker squatting at his or her desk.

  Or how about this tip from the magazine on fitting in firm time while on the road, actually driving behind the wheel? Fun as it is to catch someone picking a booger in traffic, this little exercise is guaranteed to screech a few tires and turn some heads.

  It’s called, “Tone in Traffic.” What one does is squeeze one’s derriere each time one taps the brake. I’m not sure about others, but if I clenched my butt while tapping a brake, I’m sure the car in front of me would end up in the junkyard.

  Some fannies were meant to stay flabby. Mine is one of them.

  Hair It Is

  S aints preserve us. When it comes to hair, just as with any subject, everybody has an opinion. Usually, those with the least on their noggins yelp loudest when a woman does the unthinkable: takes a pair of razor-sharp shears to her tangle of weeds and decides, “The Time Has Come.”

  Here’s the deal. It’s just hair. I’m lucky to have any at all. I swannee, there are men on this planet who’d just as soon see a toothless babe in a nursing home sporting Britney Spears’s trashy tresses, even on a face that looks like a swatch of waddedup linen.

  Do men not care how old we are? Is long hair just as important to most of these creatures as are football, three squares a day and four to six humps a week? I mean, come on, fellows. Flowing horse manes may be lovely, but sometimes a girl over 40 just needs a change. Give us a break. It’s the smile that counts. The insides, not the outsides. Right?

  I guess not. Men’s preferences are even mandated in how much possum (va-hee-nah) fur a woman should have. I think they call it the Band-Aid strip, but I’m not going south with this story, I’m staying north of the border.

  It all began two nights ago, when my wild Aunt Betty called screaming into our answering machine to hurry and call her back. Her voice had either a coating of martini madness driving the vocals or something tremendously wretched had occurred. I was hoping her bladder hadn’t fallen out again from her insistence at age 70 to continue jumping up and down on a trampoline and cutting flying air splits for the church fashion shows.

  See, she has no uterus, so Mama was partly right when she said parts can fly out of the va-genie when the Ute is removed and so forth. Aunt Betty may be wild, but plenty of my kin are hanging by slender threads on that unpredictable borderline vine of sanity. When I finally got through to her, she had one thing to holler.

  “John and I were online tonight, and Lord have mercy…Hold
on while I fan myself.” She began heaving and making noises, and I heard ice cubes rattling before she composed herself to return to the phone. It reminded me of the time she called to say her husband had taken out a nursing-home insurance policy on her and she was so furious she didn’t cook for a week. When the poor nursing-home insurance rep came to their house one evening—a meek-looking fellow who appeared in need of some Ensure and a good enema—Aunt Betty decided, as usual, to go for the SHOCK value.

  “Well, hey there, sugar,” she said to this poor, scrawny, anemic man. “I understand my dumb-ass husband has called you into my fine living room to take out a nursing-home policy on me.”

  “Ma’am, we call them long-term health care—”

  “I will not be placed in a home. I see what my husband is up to and he hasn’t eaten or had marital favors in a week, and it could go on longer if we don’t straighten this mess out right here and now before The Bold and the Beautiful comes on and I have to shoo you on out of here.”

  He swallowed from nerves, and his Adam’s apple, the fattest part on him, bobbed like Big Bird’s beak pecking to escape his neck.

  “If you haven’t noticed by now, I resemble Ann-Margret, the movie star. I may be of a certain age, but I sure don’t look it, now, do I?”

  What could he say? Truth is, Aunt Betty really is sexy and has a vaVoom figure including a set of natural double or triple Ds.

  He cleared his throat and rubbed at his armpits and pretended not to sneak a sniff, then said, “It’s not how you look, for that matter, it’s for protection and your own good later in life when things aren’t exactly—”

  “Listen up. You’ve said your piece, and my asshole husband has said his. Now hear and see mine.” With that, my dear, sweet aunt pranced over to this pitiful fellow who at 50ish probably lives at home with his mother and watches the Wheel at night during supper. She proceeded to do a number on him as only Aunt Betty can do to men.