Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Curves, Continued

In an effort to be sane and pro-active, I did my best to tolerate Curves by finding and bringing in my own music. I bought it on line—possibly the world’s only workout CD (DVD? VD? PTSD?) to feature selections of classical music—none of it opera, all lyric-free. I slipped it into my purse, brought it to Curves, and begged the young Curves girl to please try it out. She said she needed the boss’s approval, and that the boss was away on a skiing vacation.

“Let’s pretend I’m the boss,” I said in my head. Outside my head I said: “Pretty please?”

“What if the other members don’t like it?”

There were, at the time, two women there. 

“Then we’ll all kill ourselves,” I said, again in my head, while outwardly swearing that if this were the case, I’d apologize to all two of them and keep my music out of Nerves ever more.

“What’d you say?” 

Oops. Calling Curves Nerves was my other attempt at making Curves doable. It had, after all, destroyed all of mine. Of course, I hadn’t meant to say Nerves aloud but when you’re in the habit of thinking one thing and saying another, this is sometimes what happens.

“What’d I say when?” I replied.

Feigned confusion plus two more minutes of the most abject of begging persuaded her to accommodate me. For the next half hour there was nary a hint of the Funkytown song, nor one tortured growl from a substitute Cher. This, plus my silent decision to trade in Nerves for the even more delicious title of Pervs, got me through the first half of the workout. I got through the second half by studying the post-its adorning one wall, each one declaring, via black marker, that Curves had helped yet one more member lose so many hideous inches.

“Sarah B. lost four inches!” bragged one.

“Laurie P. lost five pounds and fifteen inches!” boasted a superior other.

“In height!” I added to each, using the marker I keep in my head. After all, doesn’t menopause make you get shorter? Do we not, if we live long enough, Boniva and Pervs both notwithstanding, finally shrink to the size of a cell phone? 

I regarded the vandalized post-its with glee and, workout completed, flew out the door.


  1. So that's what's wrong. When I look in my local
    Pervs, I most times see no one. Now I know I have to look a lot lower to see all the cell phone sized people huffin and puffin in puddles of sweat. With enough effort and dedication they will shrink away to merry smidgens, chiseled,
    buffed, posing in tiny mirrors. So nice to have
    you back, Ms G.

  2. Thanks for making me laugh, Mr. Fogman.
    Or should I say Mr. Blogman.
    (Shouldn't you have one?)
    Ms. G

  3. I used to wait for the delivery thump of my Chron on your column days, then rush out and grab it up, knowing I'd soon be going to Gonickville. Such a long, dry (and boring) spell without you, but you're back! I just wish my computer would make a little thump to alert me to your next column, just for old time's sake.

  4. A thumpin' good blog on Curves, Ms G. I await
    to see who your next target will be. Your wit
    will win out the day, I say! As to myself
    blogging about here and there showing no shame,
    I must say I appreciate your kind words, but
    there are hundreds of thousands bloggers today.
    Just reading a few of the good ones is fine by me, and commenting on just the correct blogs is fun while not being demanding. (Lazy intellect
    and maudlin-ism runs in the family.) Speaking of thumps, I still read the old Chron, but realize more and more that the Sunday thump is the only one worth perusing, with the exception of the self-promotor/wealthy lobbyist His Williness.
    I miss Ms G and all the great writers who fled
    with their belongings, seeking food and water.

    Speaking of even more thumps (and bumps) your
    Pansy blog last week brought up a painful
    memory.(See last comment letter from me... currently it is the final letter on the Pansy
    blog.) I didn't mean for it to sound all so
    dark. Playland was actually a blast for me
    and my friends. It literally was our own back yard...how lucky we were! For those of you who
    don't know what we're talking about, check out the last shot in "The Lady from Shanghai" (1947) where Orson Welles is stumbling about half dead. The entire background is Playland at the Beach in black and white... which is Exactly how it was on most overcast days when I practically lived on the Big Dipper. I was lucky to be there, but I wish I had bought a bike lock. Ouch! That memory still stings like a nettle I can't get out. Fogman (28th Ave.)

  5. Well, Ms. G, we all have out musical nightmare stories. I remember one Christmas season when I was relegated to working for Macy's (the Pit of Retail) in Corte Madera. I worked for Estee Lauder right inside the front door. There was a quaint display of Dancing Santa's, directly across from my counter. They kept one on all the time and he bobbed and swayed to "Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock" over and over and over. Meanwhile on the overhead speaker Cher was asking (belting out actually) if we "believed in love?" At the Benefit counter, home of several little punkettes, the girls were playing Gangstra rap on their brought from home Boombox, suggesting the murder of law enforcement agents. It was enough to drive one completely round the bend and take up knitting in front of wine shops. I don't know how I survived it. This, after being almost burned to a crisp years earlier...my previous claim to fame...and how I met your late Father back in the 60's. Life doesn't seem fair at all sometimes but I persevere nevertheless.

  6. I love the post-it edits.

    And here's a link to an SF Chron article on Curves: http://tinyurl.com/2aqr4


  7. Hi Ms G.
    I believe that "Perves" is Perfect. Since my local Curves is filled w/ The Chosen Christians.
    K. Elliott

  8. The Chosen Christians? Haven't they been running
    in place for centuries?


  9. Thank you, Rose and K. Elliott and Erika! And Mme DeFarge, if you'd like to catch me up (per private email) on how you met my father, I'd love to know.

  10. I'm getting tired of waiting on a new post.
    And what about us? We want to know how Mme DeFarge met your dad.