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Reflections June 2018

Laverne's View

I'm Having a Physical Fitness Fit

By Laverne Bardy

Do you feel out of place because you don't smell from perspiration, don't need a knee brace, or cortisone shots, and don't own a terry cloth headband and florescent running shoes? If so, join us next Saturday at 10 a.m. in front of the YMCA. Be prepared to march for your right to be a sloth.

I hate exercise! There is nothing about sweating, exhaustion and pain that appeals to me. The most active thing I did this week was struggle to rip open a bag of Fritos.

Every day the media reminds me that I am out of sync with the rest of the world. The government is presently designing a dollar bill on which running shoes replace George Washington's face. Sweat was officially added to the list of American symbolisms, along with apple pie, the flag and Mom. Ellen DeGeneres is promoting a line of bridal warm-up suits and deodorants are being phased from market shelves and replaced with cans of Instant Sweat Aerosols.

Last week I hosted a support group for a group of men and women who shared a common bond: their utter disdain for exercise. They entered my house one by one, lethargic, sluggish, overweight. There was a time when they accepted who they were, but the world’s obsession with physical fitness was interfering with their lifestyle and had left them feeling disgraced and embarrassed.

The first despondent person spoke.

"Hello, my name is Portia Portly and I am a non-athlete."

She was greeted warmly.

"I couldn't bear the stares any longer," she sobbed. "Everyone could see I was overweight and out of shape, so I bought a tennis outfit to wear in the supermarket, and various other public venues. It’s not at all flattering but snarky jeers have been replaced with encouraging cheers.
Portia’s idea was applauded and adopted as future policy.

"I joined a health club,” confessed a substantially pudgy businessman. “When I tell my macho associates, they’re impressed. They needn’t know I only go there for massages and smoothies.”

I felt compelled to cleanse my conscience. “When my husband returned home from completing his sixth marathon, he found me lying in the yard. How could I admit that while he'd been running over 26 miles I’d been sun bathing? So, I lied and told him I'd sprained my ankle doing jumping jacks and was waiting for him to carry me indoors.”

Everyone empathized.

“A perfect example of prejudice towards non-athletes happened to my cousin, Martha,” announced a woman who preferred to remain nameless. “Martha devised an affordable way to extract energy and create affordable fuel from 50-year-old diet pills she’d found in her medicine cabinet. She received presidential praise and was even up for a Nobel Prize; and then the bomb dropped. An in-depth interview with Martha revealed that she was not committed to being physically active. As a result, her credibility became suspect and she is currently under close surveillance by both the CIA and Richard Simmons.”

The meeting concluded after 20 minutes, when the food ran out.

Do you feel out of place because you don't smell from perspiration, don't need a knee brace, or cortisone shots, and don't own a terry cloth headband and florescent running shoes? If so, join us next Saturday at 10 a.m. in front of the YMCA. Be prepared to march for your right to be a sloth.

Please be prompt as the parade is scheduled to last only ten minutes. The local first aid squad has kindly volunteered to be on hand for those requiring treatment for exhaustion.

 

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