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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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December 2005 / January 2006 Contest Results |
The Hardest
Exercise
By Dace Pedecis
Tacoma, WA
The most difficult
thing about a fitness program is not shelling out the bucks to join a
club, or even using the resistance machines. No indeed. The hardest
thing is buying clothes to work out in.
Exercise clothes seem to be designed to remind you exactly why you need
to go to the gym in the first place, and also to reveal to everyone else
just why you are there.
Thank goodness you don't have to go to a sporting goods store to buy
fitness gear. I can just imagine going into the realm of macho men and
macha women and having everyone turn around and stare wondering, "What
is she doing here?" Just sidling into the section of the lingerie
department, where the fitness outfits are, is enough to make a sheepish
grin creep onto my face even though no one is looking.
Who are these clothes made for anyway? Five-year olds? There are
teeny-tiny tops that bare the abs and little bitty shorts that bare
almost everything else. Have I wandered into the children's department
by mistake? No, there is grown-up lady underwear in the very next aisle.
The colors are rarely selected to make you inconspicuous. There are
blindingly bright blues, electric greens and fluorescent pinks. What
color goes best with a sweaty red face? Horizontal stripes are
everywhere. Apparently the designers of sports wear never heard that
horizontal stripes make you look like an elephant wearing a circus tent.
If I still had the Popsicle stick body I had when I was 10 and taking
ballet lessons, I might consider wearing tights and a leotard. That was
many milk shakes and pound cakes ago. There is no way I'm going to
bounce around in an aerobics class in gear that fits like a coat of
paint.
But I have to wear something. On my orientation tour of the gym, I saw
people working out in sweats. This would seem an ideal solution to my
camouflage problem. However, I sweat in sweats, even when I'm standing
around just thinking about exercising. Not to mention, sweats have wide
waistbands which accent the place where my waist used to be. Until I get
a waist again, I want to cover it up, not show it off.
Loud colors aren't the only puzzlement. Some of the garments are made of
a rustly material that reminds me of candy bars being unwrapped in a
quiet, dark theater. That's the last thing I need to be reminded of. The
tag gives no indication what this noisy material could be. What I see,
instead, is that these togs have been proven in various athletic events,
and have even won championships and medals. I can barely do one push-up;
I don't want pants that could compete in the next Olympics, while I
watch from the stands. There must be clothes that need exercise as much
as I do.
Back behind the boldly colored outfits hide some garments in more
subdued grays, blacks and navy blues that don't make claims to an
athletic prowess that I don't possess. I select a few tops and bottoms
and head for the fitting room. Thank goodness there are locks on the
doors, and that the snoopily-helpful sales ladies of my bashful teen
years, who tended to barge in just as I was trying on bras, are long
gone.
Rubberized bike shorts are supposed to squeeze your flesh and make you
look more compact. Just struggling into them is probably good for
burning off 50 calories. But where is the blubber supposed to go? In the
mirror I see the answer rolling over the waistband. Riiight. Removing
them is like peeling the skin off a grape.
After trying on five or six different outfits, I feel as blue as the navy
pants I try on last. But they are quiet. The only claim they make is to be
washable. They hug me in places I don't need to be hugged, but I'll buy
a long t-shirt to cover up those parts. At least they don't make my
thighs look like sausages in a casing.
As I head for the cashier's desk, I've already scored a small triumph.
I've selected active wear without bursting into tears, completing the
hardest exercise.
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