I lasted almost thirty minutes.
The paramedics were very
nice though.
They let me keep the cute little oxygen mask they used to revive me.
The
aerobics instructor suggested that I take up jogging.
The experts say to start with short distances first, but they fail to
mention
that no matter how short the distance out is, you gott'a go the same
distance
back! I'm working my way up to the end of the driveway, and after that,
who knows? I might make it to the corner by the end of next week.
Another thing the woman of the '90s does is "find herself." My problem is that I didn't know I was lost. However, some magazines assure me that short of fifty dollar an hour psychoanalysis, inner searching through meditation will help me see how misguided I really am. So, I started practicing Yoga.
Yoga is easier than aerobics or jogging, and as soon as the pain from twisting my protesting limbs into the natural position subsides, numbness sets in. Then I can concentrate on my mantra. My husband promises me that the bruises under my armpits, where he held me to haul me out of the natural position, will disappear in a day or two.
TV commercials guarantee that if I use the proper feminine hygiene products to feel fresh, stop itching and renew my natural moisture, I can be a true, refined woman of the '90s. And if I take the right fiber pill, pop the correct over-50s vitamin and drink canned food supplements, I can learn to scuba dive and become the envy of the silver haired set. Except, I can't swim, and thanks to Miss Clarol, my hair isn't silver. I guess I'm just not meant to be a '90s woman, but the year 2000 is here. Maybe my calling is to be a woman of the aughts.
That's it! After all, I'm always saying "I ought to do this, or I ought to do that." Of course, I could just be one of those rare, timeless beauties people hear about but hardly ever get to meet.
***
