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I’ve just returned from Target, where I purchased an exercise ball and workout gloves. Yes, I’m kind of a fitness nut. My daily workout routine, which fills my time and balances my serotonin levels, keeps me from killing myself during this extended period of unemployment - that, and the Prozac (or is it the Prozac that makes me want to kill myself?)
I actually already owned an exercise ball and workout gloves, but due to a debilitating condition known as York’s Disease (similar to Lou Gehrig’s Disease, but less fatal, as yet, and much more annoying,) I needed to replace them. York’s Disease has only one symptom - stupidity - but it comes in two forms: voluntary and involuntary. The need to replace the exercise ball was due to the former.
Julie My Love has a cat, Cleo, whom is the unfortunate subject of any educational experiments that I conduct which require a small, living organism (any experiments that require a man-sized subject invariably fall upon me.) Naturally, if I were fortunate enough to own an inflatable rubber ball twelve feet in diameter, my first inclination would be to get on top of that ball and see how long I could balance there. Unfortunately, I only had the one that was two feet across, so Cleo was called upon for this enviable task.
While Cleo has earned her nickname of Circus Cat (mostly against her will,) it is not because she is a daring and talented acrobat, but because she often finds herself called upon to perform death-defying and awe-inspiring stunts, such as balancing on top of a large inflatable ball. Now while you, wise and silent reader, have most likely already deduced where this is headed, my eponymous ailment prevents me from recognizing - and avoiding - clearly bad ideas (case in point: the Dodgeball Backstop Fall.)
In situations of extreme self-peril, most living creatures must make the instinctive choice between flight and fight. When you’re a cat on an exercise ball, and you can’t even figure out how to get off the damned thing so that you can run away… Well, you really only have the one choice. When twenty sharpened cat claws pierce an exercise ball, there’s really no point in trying to patch the thing (I couldn’t even find the holes!) You just have to go to Target and buy a new one.
And the workout gloves? We’ll come to that another time, as I now see that I’m about six paragraphs longer than the typical interesting blog. Thanks to Friend John for your previous comment (it was Halibut with tomatoes, capers, and shallots, actually. We’ll have you over for one of our Famous Fancy Feasts soon!)
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