A/N: I had some great animated gifs for this post, but then the 1992 internet connection kicked in and I figured it was time to hit CTRL+V and get out while the lights were still on. So to speak.
A toaster fell on my head today and I’m embarrassed at how happy it made me. I’m not normally a toast eater, but I’d just bought some great artisan bread at the Sultan Center and I was thinking that it would be delicious toasted, if only I owned a toaster. Then I reached into a cupboard to put something away and the toaster fell out on top of me. A more metaphysical person might suspect that this was the Universe sending a message.
I didn’t know I had a toaster. When I moved into my apartment it was already occupied by my roommate, Invisible Kate. (Her name isn’t really Invisible Kate. That’s just my fond nickname for her.) Invisible Kate spends 99% of her non-working time in her bedroom with the door closed. This leaves me free to sprawl out, fling my belongings around, and just generally hog all of the common areas. Invisible Kate ventures forth only rarely to ride the elevator to the roof and smoke a cigarette. I do not join her in this activity for two reasons:
- Smoking is a filthy habit and
- My mother reads this blog.
When I moved into the apartment everything was coated in a layer of dust and some kind of waxy substance that I do not care to speculate about. This was not Invisible Kate’s fault, as (I’ve noted) she was busy being in her room. I spent my first week scrubbing the place down and rearranging cupboards. After that I hired a maid service to do the cleaning.
I’ve been waiting over forty years to be able to say that. Can you hear the angels sing?
Anyway, obviously at some point in my cleaning I must have seen the toaster, but until it beaned me this morning, I forgot about it.
So now I can have toast, which makes me happy. Except that it’s just one more thing I’m going to have to fight in my battle against Triangle Butt.
It’s a real battle to get enough exercise in Kuwait. I sit in an office chair for twelve hours a day, six days a week. I can feel my backside flattening and spreading like butter on a hot griddle. I’m paranoid that I’m going to get that grandma thing where your butt slowly droops into an inverted triangle, and everyone knows it but you.
There’s a gym in my apartment building, but—this is purely speculation on my part—the equipment appears to have been assembled as part of a Rube Goldberg competition in a junior-high shop class.
The treadmill in my gym, like a Porsche Boxster, accelerates from zero to a hundred in 5.8 seconds. No lie. I tried to run on it one day. One minute I was moving in ludicrous slow-motion like the Chariots of Fire guy at the finish line, and the next I was doing Wile E Coyote runs off a cliff, legs spinning in a blur while I scrambled to stay upright and not lose every “cool point” I’ve ever amassed.
I avoid the gym.
My only line of defense against Triangle Butt is to slip out of the office two or three times a day and walk a really fast mile each time. I’m a fast walker anyway, but during Butt Maintenance sessions I really haul… well, butt.
Naturally, every helpful soul that sees me race-walking thinks I must be late for an appointment, so they stop to offer me a ride (this is a small military base. It’s not creepy like it would be if I was walking around town). Then I have to stop walking and explain to them about Triangle Butt. It gets complicated. Their eyes get all shifty and they start shrinking back from me. Sometimes I just give up and let them bring me back to the office like a runaway puppy. A fire engine brought me back one day last week which was really cool, except I didn’t get any exercise that day.
So now I can have my toast, but I’m going to have to redouble my battle against Triangle Butt. Maybe I’ll just make toast once or twice, and then hide the toaster from myself again. In Invisible Kate’s room.
Great description of your apartment “gym” – it sounds like every apartment building “fitness center” I’ve ever seen, except mine are usually equipped with one creepy guy who, while he looks in need of a workout, never seems to actually be doing anything. Good luck with the walking – always the simplest way to get some fitness into your day!
Oh yes, the creepy gym lurker. That’s a post all in itself!!
This Post CRACKED me up! Triangle butt – lol! Too funny. I enjoy your posts…keep them coming! 🙂
Thank you so much Christy! I am still a little bit in awe that anyone would want to read my ramblings. I so much appreciate you!
Funny! the whole thing! 🙂
Thanks Jenny! It’s good to hear from you. I hope things are going well for you. Still in FL?
I don’t believe I have a triangle butt I think I have an amazing flat and square butt it protrooods outword several inches, butt it’s still flat and square (albeit large) and in the rear. Butt, I digress…p..s Does Invisible Kate know you call her invisible Kate?
Standing lunges, Brazilian lunges (?), Warrior 3 are good but firming. I would say I do them all the time but (;-}) I would be lieing. Not that anyone would notice.
Michelle, I’ve decided that I’m going to download some yoga videos and start doing yoga in my apartment. Yoga is excellent Triangle Butt prevention… so I hear.
The only yoga instructor with a bad butt is the one who’s not doing it right. Or it’s genetic! ;0-}
I like that you keep your mother in mind. Toast is a good thing, in moderation. Enjoy it. ‘Triangle butt’ Hmmm. I think ‘briefcase’ or ‘satchel’, but I had not considered ‘triangle’. It seems like a pretty good image at first consideration; a solid base with a narrow top – the start of an hourglass figure. But, I suppose, if you invert that same triangle, it takes on a less than appearance. The answer: Leg lifts. Doggie leg lifts. Donkey kicks. Lots of them. Start now. Get that triangel back on its base. My best to you in that endeavor. Althea