Bowflex and Yardboys
Beware of instruction booklets that begin with any of these phrases:
Takes two people to assemble
Contains over 100 pieces with helpful map
Estimated time required: five hours
In my disability haze it occured to me that a home gym would be nice. I have the time, I could get into a routine - yadda yadda.
After much internet research and hours of scouring message boards devoted to muscle types who sprinkle protein powder on branflakes, I made a decision and placed my order.
When I opened the box, my initial urge was to close it with two inch nails and ship it back. The potpourri of screws and allen wrenches alone sent my eyes flickering like an epileptic at a No Doubt concert.
I felt like I was staring into a solar eclipse without the aid of a pin pricked dixie cup.
There was only one woman for this job.
My Mom is Bob Vila on estrogen power bars. Perhaps my right sided brain had blown the sheer enormity of it all, all out of proportion. Perhaps not.
The First Day
We worked (I loosely use the term we) on it from 8:00 to 5:30 pm. We were on step 10 of 27 when we quit for the day. My Mama went to bed at 6:00. I was exhausted and hadn't done one bicep curl or tricep push.
The Second Day
We were crunched for time so a few bolts were inserted into 105a and 99d. Mind you, no steps were actually completed, but we were gaining momentum. We were, honest.
The Third Day
My mother started in at 10:00. By 1:00 I had sat on hold with customer service for over an hour only to have a snooty female take my name and number without answering a single lugnut question.
The call was returned two days later.
The last bolt was tightened at 3:30. I know my Mother was thinking, "if this is like those damn saddle shoes you had to have in first grade and wore once, I'll kill you."
It is nearly 7' tall and I've used it religiously. Of course I'll have to live out my days here in my little two story, four plex. The thought of moving it sends my stomach rolling like a funhouse floor.
The Yardboy
I have a longhaired, 25 lb cat named Taz who among many things happens to be a tad bipolar. Compromise and levity are not his forte. His two main phobias are sneezes or anything that sounds like a sneeze, i.e. the first opening of a two litre bottle. Oh yes and the smell of mint repels him like rain on a London Fog.
For some reason he has had several bad episodes lately with his posterior. After giving him a few days to rectify the nastiness on his own, I did the only thing I could do: prepared for battle.
My weapons:
An old tub filled with 3" of warm water
One heavy winter coat
Ski gloves
An empty cloth icepack subbing as a mask
One dimly lit garage
One unsuspecting, stinky lardass cat
Dunk. Two points. Clean cat.
