Pectoral Paralysis

Hey everyone,

Happy VD!

Ummmmm.... I mean, Happy Valentine's Day!

Has anyone been struck by an errant arrow d'amour yet today? If not, there's still time, just be sure to make yourself a good target for Cupid; he's so busy today he probably doesn't have time to search for us all.

So, I joined a gym in Madison a few months ago. It's called the Princeton Club, which has the benefit of giving me that faux Ivy League prestige I've been longing after for all these years. I can't wait to see the looks of jealously on the faces of my chaps at my polo club. In addition, It's open 24/7, which is handy for those times when I wake up at 3:00am with a burning urge to bench press.

Once incident on my first day there disturbed me quite a bit. I had innocently jumped on an elliptical machine, when the machine started interrogating me. First of all, it asked for program preference... then time... then resistance preference.... then my age... at this point I was ready to run for the back exit. Why on earth did the machine need all this information? Surely I had somehow stumbled through dimensions and had arrived at Communal Fitness Factory #381 of some totalitarian society. Surely this infernal machine would next ask for my social security number, would greet me as Comrade #254763, and then would inform me that if I continued to ignore the recommendation of five gym visits per week recommended by the Ministry of Health, I would fail to achieve the five year optimal fitness quota laid out by the Fitness Tribunal. However, before I had a chance to join the Michigan Militia, the machine started going. My bad.

A friend of ours and I were recently exchanging stories about the difficulties of dressing and undressing after overexercising the day before. This has once again reminded me of what a perfect time it is for the introduction of a new line of tear-away workout clothes. Think about it, no more having to lift your arms above your head to put a shirt on... no more ending up with your head through an armhole... the potential is endless. It would simply be, Velcro on, tear off. The slogan can be something like "Off in five seconds flat, or your money back." If the tear-away clothes don't catch on, we could also offer trained monkey chambermaids as an alternative. Who's with me?

Frankly, I am not sure that enough thought is put into naming pieces of fitness equipment. For example, there is one step machine Stairmaster produces called the "Gauntlet". Do we really need these cognitive associations with herculean feats of will, strength, and pain, to make us think we're getting a workout? What are we going to have next, the "Iron Maiden Abdominal Ripper"? The "Gargantuan Gluteus Grinder"? The "Tyrannical Tricep Torture Tower"? I mean, why not name the "Gauntlet" the "Super A-OK Happy Highstepper Deluxe?", or something like that? Which would you rather work out on?

If you're still looking for that perfect, last minute Valentine's Day gift for your sweetheart, try Russel Stoner candies. Russel Stoner, making fine pot laced chocolates since 1937. Try them for a relaxing evening eating Doritos and watching Cheech and Chong films with your significant other.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Take care!

Extraneously,

Peter