EXCUSES, EXCUSES

by  Patricia Misiuk

Pressing the mute button on the TV remote control perched on my armrest constitutes ---- at least in my book ---- strenuous exercise.  So it shocked my husband when I mentioned the only item on my 2011 bucket list: join AND go to a gym.

"You, who wastes half a tank of gas while cruising for a parking space next to the store?" he asked.
"Yup," I said.

My lack of athleticism coupled with a body that should not wear sports attire jump-started painful memories of compulsory high school physical education.  I was the queen of klutz.

My long jump distance was measured in single-digit inches.  Ditto for the high jump.  As my classmates ascended the school's version of El Capitan ---- a rope ---- I merely swung back and forth while my feet scraped the floor.

My coping mechanism to combat my shame was inventing excuses, a skill I have since fine-tuned to justify job snafus, marital minefields and culinary flops.

When the jock teacher noticed my bloomer-style gym-suit hadn't been near a washing machine, she asked, "What gives?  Run out of quarters for the Laundromat?"

"The Maytag repairman is so busy making commercials he couldn't fix our machine,"  I lied.

She merely shook her head and barked, "Go!  Grab a field hockey stick."

Within minutes I was the walking wounded, bruises reflecting all colors of the rainbow.  Later when an archery bow vibrated and stung my upper arm, 'twas time to sit on the sidelines.

"Can't play," I said.  "Got my period."

"You've had that for three weeks," she countered.
"Get on the field."

I thought outside the box and assumed Teacher knew little about the human brain.  When Teacher ordered me to serve the vollyball, I had a ready response.
"No can do."
"Let me guess.  Fallen arches."
"Nope.  Medulla oblongata."
She bought it.  Four years of gym helped me expand my repertoire of excuses.  Tennis, anyone?  Allergic to tennis ball fuzz.  Trampoline?  Not until my middle ear infection clears.  Softball catcher?  No way; no mitts for southpaws.

Nowadays a fictitious power outage caused a lopsided souffle.  After I told the judge about chronic fibula metatarsus, he released me from jury duty.

This brings me back to my resolution to get into shape, or at least get moving.

"Welcome," the pert trainer gushed.  "I need your weight."
When I lowballed the number by 15 --- O.K., I confess 20 pounds, I said, "My shoes are very heavy."

The excuses rolled off my tongue easily, just as they did years ago.  And when you see me scarfing down Krispy Kremes after my workout regimen, you'll have no difficulty believing me when I blame my low sugar count.