You need to join a gym! With that declaration my wife woke me up from a real fine nap. She had just come home from a shopping trip, and found me sprawled out comatose in my favorite recliner. A bowl of potato chips wobbled precariously on my big bulging belly. A sticky stream of nap drool glistened on my chin. I jumped up abruptly, scattering potato chips all over the carpet. I was just getting to that part of the dream when Brad Pitt storms in and catches me and Angelina comparing tattoos. What was that, honey? I asked sheepishly, with guilt and grease from the potato chips smeared all over my face. I said you need to join a gym, she replied with a snarl. All you ever do is eat junk food and take naps, and watch World War II documentaries on the History Channel. I just stood there staring at her stupidly, trying to think of an appropriate rebuttal. All I could come up with was a lame mumble about the History Channel being educational. But she was on a mission, and she was all fired up with that reformatory fervor peculiar to femininity. Youve got to lose some weight, she persisted. You need to exercise and go on a diet. Youre beginning to look like a fat old man. By now I was warming to the possibility of a full-blown fight. I glared at her menacingly, thinking how much nicer it would be to have an extra rib and some talking animals for companions, instead of a meddling helpmate who wanted to starve me to death. I know what this is about, I said with a growl. Youve started another one of your fantasy love affairs with Keith Urban. It happens every new season of American Idol. Well let me tell you something, little lady, everybody cant look like Keith Urban, and you aint exactly Jennifer Lopez either! She gave me look that was half pity and half contempt. For a moment I thought I noticed a slight quivering in her chin. But she quickly regained her composure, and, with a loud hmmmph and a toss of her head she stalked out of the room. It took to or three days but, like most married couples, we finally got over it. I guess deep down I knew she had a point. But no man likes to admit that he may be past his prime. Its a concept that exceeds the feeble grasp of the masculine imagination. Thats because a mans self-image is forever frozen on his eighteenth birthday. And the older he gets, the more deluded he becomes. When an old man looks in the mirror, he sees a teenager in a tuxedo on his way to the prom, not a potbellied greybeard on his way to the bone-yard. Of course, my wife, like a lot of women, plays the same kind of mind games. She refuses to admit that she could use a little time on the treadmill herself, even though some of the fruit that used to hang pretty firm on the tree is beginning to sag in a place or two. The truth is, were both out of shape. If my wife and I discovered ourselves naked in the Garden of Eden, wed need a forest of fig leaves and two Singer sewing machines to cover up our shame and embarrassment. Both of us need to join a gym. But, still, whether she joins me or not, I guess Id better start working out, if I want to save my marriage. And if I ever see Keith Urban, Im gonna punch him in the nose.
Posted on: Sat, 24 Jan 2015 02:19:00 +0000
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