By Karen Anderson, Club Humorist
Is everyone ready for swimsuit season? I am — as long as the swimsuit in question is one of those anthropomorphic submersibles that resembles a sea-going suit of armor.
After a year of no gym, no yoga studio, and no swing dancing, I’m not in great physical shape. (My mental state is a subject for a completely different column.)
The Scholarly Gentleman and I go for a long walk every day, but when it comes to any other type of workout, I must report failure. I’ve tried DVDs, apps, and online Zoom classes. I’ve invested in sets of giant rubber bands. Last summer I bought a purple hula hoop. That worked nicely on the patio in July but turned unexpectedly destructive in October when I tried hula hooping in the kitchen and accidentally cleared all the dishes off the counter.
Our cat was now involved in the workout. I planted my foot firmly on her tail. She yowled, she fled, and I crashed to the floor.”
My excuse is that none of the over-furnished rooms in our old house have even the slightest resemblance to a fitness facility. We have no space for a treadmill, much less a Peloton.
Our second-floor bedroom (formerly an attic) has a lovely view of Puget Sound, which I thought might provide the right ambiance for a yoga practice. I rolled my mat out on the floor, struck the Mountain Pose, and inhaled. Unfortunately, I found myself gazing straight at the Scholarly Gentleman’s dresser, where a pile of clean laundry had been waiting to be put away. For. An. Entire. Week.
My Sun Salutation consisted of throwing my arms up in exasperation. Then I stepped back into a Warrior with Eagle Pose without realizing that our cat was now involved in the workout. I planted my foot firmly on her tail. She yowled, she fled, and I crashed to the floor.
Well, I figured as long as I was flat on my back, I might as well try a side twist — a pose known as Supta Matsyendrasana. It’s great for stretching the glutes — and also for discovering all the dust bunnies under the bed. While down there, I noticed a disgusting blob on the floor that made me feel a lot less guilty about having stepped on the cat. Serenity restored, I rolled up my yoga mat and left it in the corner — where it’s now collecting dust.
Since then I’ve done Zumba in the living room, taken Country-Western Two-Step classes in the dining room (using a stuffed bear as a partner), and lifted weights in my home office between Zoom meetings.
“Are you all right in there?” the Scholarly Gentleman will occasionally call out from the safety of the couch.
I’m perfectly fine, but on our walk the other afternoon, we got pretty worried about one of our neighbors.
Through her open window, we heard her shouting, “Get away from me! Back off, creep!” The Scholarly Gentleman whipped out his phone to call 911 before I figured it out.
“Wait!” I said. “She’s teaching martial arts and women’s self-defense classes on Zoom! As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of taking one of her classes.”
“Martial arts?” The Scholarly Gentleman sounded a bit worried. When we got home, he ran upstairs and put all his clean laundry away.
