My aunt mailed me a Baby Blues comic she’d cut out of the newspaper a few weeks ago.
It depicts the mom trying to exercise like the person on the workout video. Soon, she’s doing push-ups…with a little person on her back.
It’s the stuff of comics, alright. But Baby Blues tends to be pretty realistic. And exercise in our house is just exactly that comical. (When I actually exercise, that is.)
My 2-year-old thinks I should be able to do pushups with her on my back. Or else it’s just that any time I lay on the floor I’m fair game for climbing on.
Regardless, the girls take their naps in the rooms with carpet, so the only time I
can do push-ups is when they are around to climb on me. And it’s comical, alright.
(Incidentally, when I caught Ru exercising with Piglet and her four Pooh bears, she didn’t have any of them on her back!)
Of course, it’s nearly as comical how I can let a strained wrist serve as an excuse to keep me from doing my exercises. (In fact, it just might be that the right exercises could help it!)
The last few weeks have seen me doing very, very few push-ups. My exercise routine has been the stuff of another comic strip—which I wish I could find.
I’ve never forgotten that Sunday Family Circus.
Just like in the Baby Blues comic, there were ladies on the TV screen working out. And little Billy or his sister turned to their mother and asked, “Mommy, why don’t you ever exercise?”
The rest of the strip is glimpses into the mother’s memories of the day: how she dove under the couch to grab a toy, how she carried around the children, how she reached high up on a shelf. She wasn’t following a planned workout, but each move was one of the aerobic ones being depicted on the screen.
I’ve been organizing our bookshelves, rearranging furniture, making the storage room actually accessible: they just haven’t been real “weights” I’ve been lifting. And they haven’t been working quite all the target muscles—aka those abs of flab.
I guess it’s a good thing it’s almost warm enough to hang clothes on the line again—I’ll be working those stomach muscles when I reach down to the laundry basket.
Meanwhile, I’m thinking it’s not very comical that it only takes me a few short minutes to plop down on the carpet and do a few pushups and Russian twists—yet somehow, I can never quite fit it in my day.
How about you? Is your exercise regime the stuff comics are made of? Or are you straight out of a personal trainer’s textbook?