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***

I'm gonna open a gym.

Best part about this is that it won't cost me another penny. I've already paid (in more ways than one) for everything I need for the shop.

Shari is a sucker for the latest fitness equipment. We've got it all, except free weights. Apparently bench presses, squats and dead lifts are passe' (from the French word passe' meaning "Hey, that went by so fast I don't have a clue what it was.") The Old Man came down from Griffin a while back and collected the free weights with Shari's blessings.

If you want to work out on some contraption made of metal and plastic with a geunine imitation naugahyde covered seat cushion that would be more appropriate in a medieval dungeon than a gym, come on over. We'll strap you down and start abusing you.

Of course you'll have to excuse the cobwebs, dust, cat hair and dog slobber. You see, most of this stuff is sitting outside the house proper. It's on the carport, under the shed or in storage somewhere and in one case in a landfill somewhere. The cats long ago discovered that they can slink into the inner recesses of a piece of equipment to escape the dogs. The dogs stand there looking through the mass of wires and pedals staring at the cats and drooling.

My Mississippi Belle buys all this stuff with good intentions. She promises to work out faithfully and promises that if I likewise work out, she'll make it worth my while. Being a sucker myself, I just clench my teeth and smile painfully when she brings in another piece of exercise equipment and shows me the price tag. When she gets on, I encourage her and tell her she's doing a good job. When it comes time for me to be abused by something designed by a Californian sadist, I remember her promise and take pains to remind her of her promises ... several times.

I long ago learned to not make fun of her and the exercise equipment. She bought one of those cross country ski machines (this is the one in the landfill). She brought it home and climbed aboard and promptly got stuck.

"Help," she said.

"Help what?"

"Me," she said.

"How?"

"Get me off this thing," she said.

Visions of George Jetson ran through my head.

"Just step off," I said.

"I can't," she said. "I'm stuck."

I walked over, picked her up and gently removed her from the machine.

"I just don't understand. The salesman made it look like the easiest thing in the world," she said.

"This is a ski machine, right?" I asked. She nodded yes. "OK then, you're doing it wrong. Watch this," I said.

I went and got the biggest fan I could find. I set it up in front of the machine. I climbed on, grabbed the "ski poles" and slid my feet into the "skis." I hunched over, bent my knees and attempted to adopt the itimidating look of an Olympic skier on a downhill race. The fan convincingly whipped my hair around. All I was missing was snow.

Aha. I ran to the laundry room and grabbed the detergent. I cut the top off the box and put it in front of the fan. Instant snow!

"What are you doing?" Shari asked.

"Skiing. Downhill race. I'm in the lead," I said "Got a 2-second lead over the East Germans."

Detergent meanwhile had found its way into my mouth. I started foaming at the mouth. I figured that gave me yet another edge over the East Germans because a rabid downhill skiing redneck is not a person you want to tangle with.

Shari disappeared, returning a moment later with a Louisville Slugger.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Watch out for the trees," she said.

And that was the last time I made fun of my wife's exercise equipment.

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