he said it was probably because I haven’t been exercising much. I’m like, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN? Not exercising, my foot! I chase after a 3-year-old and twin toddlers all day long, and I live in a two-story house where I have to run up and down the steps every time McKenzie tattles on her sisters. I most certainly do get exercise!”
But he just shrugged. Evidently, low good cholesterol is as bad as high bad cholesterol and cannot be changed much by diet. So the only chance I have to rescue myself from premature heart attacks is to increase my aerobic activity.
I personally think it’s a bunch of nonsense. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you. The doctors are all in league with the fitness clubs and exercise equipment manufacturers—they’ve signed a secret pact to scare their patients into spending thousands of dollars on gym memberships and elliptical machines. Not to mention the Ab Blaster. They’ve been so successful on our parents that now they’ve turned their malevolence against us innocent gen-Xers.
I’m so mad, I’m going to have a 1,200-calorie burger for lunch, in protest. No, wait…nobody could possibly be THAT mad.
Waiting to die,
Dulcie
| From: | The Millards <[email protected]> |
| To: | “Green Eggs and Ham” |
| Subject: | Re: I am SO SORRY! |
Dulcie, are you sure you count as a gen-Xer? I’m 33 so I KNOW I do. But 26? I mean, we can’t let just anybody don that title of distinction anytime they want to…. What do you think, Ham? Can we count her? She’s SOOOOO young!
Of course, anyone at high risk of heart disease by age 26 may not live to reach her 30s, so maybe we’d better bestow an honorary designation on her, just in case. Sort of a “make a wish” concession.
Sorry to hear about the weigh-in. I understand—each of my four babies has done something strange and unique to my body. By the way, there are worse things than being told to exercise more. Some of us actually like to do it.
Love,
Jocelyn
| From: | Zelia Muzuwa <[email protected]> |
| To: | “Green Eggs and Ham” |
| Subject: | Re: I am SO SORRY! |
I don’t know about the gen-X question, she might want to hang her hat with the millennials. They’re the ones everyone is pinning hopes of the future on—as if the future is going to be that bright with global terrorism, disease, poverty and political corruption, but that’s just my gen-X cynicism.:) After all, I turned the big 3-0 last month, so I have a right to be cynical, don’t I?
Enough talk about generations. It’s all nonsense anyway. I want to hear about the rest of Dulcie’s day. So far, it doesn’t sound bad enough to explain us getting stood up. I mean it—I wait all week for the chance to chat with you. I’m still suffering from emotional trauma.
I’ll bill you for therapy, okay?
Z (aka Ham)
| From: | Dulcie Huckleberry <[email protected]> |
| To: | “Green Eggs and Ham” |
| Subject: | Good Grief |
Am too a gen-Xer. I have baby-boomer parents, both my brothers are gen-Xers, and so is my husband. So, if nothing else, I’m guilty by association.
And I don’t want to hear any complaining about emotional trauma. I went to a meeting at church last night, wearing jogging pants and a baggy T-shirt. It occurred to me that I might want to change clothes, but then I’d have more laundry to do, so I didn’t. The pastor’s wife saw me from across the room and waved at me over about thirty people’s heads. Then she looked me up and down and got a huge grin on her face.
“Dulcie!” she exclaimed. “When, when, WHEN?”
Of course, all thirty heads swiveled my direction, sixty eyes suddenly riveted to my midsection. I got all flustered and my face felt sunburned. All I could manage was, “Not, not, NOT!”
Her response? “Are you sure?”
I’m not kidding! She actually frowned and stared harder at me. What? Does she think I’m lying to her? Or does she expect me to shout out across all those people, “No, I assure you, my husband has been gone on business trips almost constantly the past several months, and when he is home, I’m too irritated by his absence to want sex, so I am quite certain I’M NOT PREGNANT!”
Anyway, she wasn’t done consuming her own leg yet. She shook her head and smiled brightly at me, as if she’d just solved the problem for herself. “Oh, well, I guess you’re just wearing your all-you-can-eat clothes.”
MY ALL-I-CAN-EAT CLOTHES? Why, why, tell me, would a slim, 40-something pastor’s wife say such a humiliating thing to a defenseless SAHM? Was it really necessary to remind me, in front of all those people, that my figure has yet to recover from the distortion of carrying twins? Have I not already been ground into the dust of the earth?
I tried to laugh it off, but Marianne saw me, and you know I can’t hide anything from her. She walked over and told me she had something for me in her car, and when we got there, I just bawled. Marianne is very sweet, but she already has her figure back and Helene is only 8 months old. And Brandon comes home every day from the biochemical lab he works for and spends time with her. And she went to college to get a home economics degree, just so she could become the most brilliant and content SAHM in the world (but humbler than Rosalyn). She spends all day quilting and scrapbooking. The only fly in her utopian ointment is Helene. Where that baby got such a temper, I have NO idea—Brandon and Marianne are both so soft-spoken. But, hey, nobody’s life should be absolutely perfect.
Anyway, I digress. Needless to say, Marianne was scant comfort to my tattered ego. So I skipped the meeting, came home and put the girls to bed, and ate some ice cream and watched a stupid reality show on TV. I thought about chatting with you, and went to put on my all-I-can-chat pajamas. But as I was washing my face, I looked in the mirror, and guess what I found?
MY FIRST GRAY HAIR!
Thus, the fetal position and no chat. How on earth did I get so old? Sunday night, I was still the energetic, perky 20-something mom of three toddlers. Monday night, I have one foot in the grave with impending heart disease and look as if I frequent all-you-can-eat buffets. Not to mention the lingering odor of bodily excretions wafting throughout the house. If that doesn’t say “nursing home” to you, I don’t know what does.
Waiting glumly for my social security check,
Dulcie
| From: | Zelia Muzuwa <[email protected]> |
| To: | Dulcie Huckleberry <[email protected]> |
| Subject: | cheer up |
