Rude Bike

Husband and I purchased a stationary bike for Christmas. Now, isn’t that romantic? A Christmas present that is right up there with a two-bag vacuum cleaner or abs flattener. Personally, I like to walk because the butt bones don’t get bruised; however, we must work our heart in a variety of ways. Since husband is the more fit of the family, he of course assembled the bike and started riding right away.

As a side note, the assembly process was interesting because there were no written directions on how to put the bike together – only diagrams and drawings. I think that’s a statement on the current state of education in our country. Kids don’t know how to read, so the only way they are going to survive in this world is to look at pictures.

Yesterday, husband asked me if I had been on the bike yet. When I answered “no,” he gave me that look that said, “I knew it, you’ll never ride it.” To prove him wrong, today was my inaugural ride on our new exercise vehicle, fresh still with the new bike smell. I adjusted the seat and sat upon the fine vinyl. The bike immediately knew there was a new user on its throne, probably because my butt is a lot larger than husband’s skinny ass. I couldn’t just press “Start,” no, it started asking all these personal questions:

Name
Age
Weight
Target Weight
Height
Blood Type
Mother’s Maiden Name
Last time I had an enema

After about 5 minutes of this crap, I unplugged the nosey bitch and held down the “reset” button. I finally fooled it and started my ride. After all, I am human, I can out wit a hunk of metal.

I had a nice journey, imagining myself by the river and through the woods, pedaling to the beat of Billy Joel. Thirty minutes and 7 miles later, I had only burned 150 calories. That’s only half a glass of chocolate milk. Damn. When I dismounted, I walked like I had just given birth, and my legs weren’t even sore. At least when I walk the treadmill I work up a little sweat.

Guess I’ll have to answer all those rude questions to make sure I get my money’s worth out of this digital ride.

It's Christmas Time in the City

I love shopping at Christmas time – the lights, the trees, the ornaments, the shoppers - all are decked out for the season. If you like to people watch, the mall at Christmas time is the perfect venue. All sizes, shapes, ages, and types have emerged from their caves and congregated at the mall. It’s like a Star Trek reunion. Let me give you some examples.

There are the middle-aged women who wear their excitement of the season. They are wearing the red sweatshirt (it’s 80 degrees outside) with a huge Christmas tree on the front that is adorned with lights that blink on and off, gold bells around their necks and ornaments dangling from their ears, and a Santa hat. I look around for the reindeer.

Then there’s the woman pushing her baby in the stroller. She has painted Capri pants on her hips down to her calves, strutting along in 3-inch heels, a scooped-neck tank top that pushes her peaches up to her neck, and chains of silver beads hanging around her bare skin, off her ears, and down her arms. Is she really on her way to Toys-R-Us?

The following woman takes the trophy, however. She had tattoos up and down her arms and legs – even a dagger or something on the small of her back. I could see the one on her back because she was wearing a white corset, which was 2 sizes too small. Tattooed across her chest was “God Bless Me.” Her skirt was a pink layered chiffon ballet skirt – even if it is December in the desert, I think the fashion police would arrest her for that one. For shoes she wore tan mukluks furry boots. I can’t make this up, folks. If I had been a little bolder, I would have taken a picture with my camera phone.

Women do not have a monopoly on weird. Enter a man in a muscle shirt, showing off his kaleidoscope of tattoos all over his body. The colors are actually quite lovely – for a bedspread, and the nose ring makes me wonder what he does when he has a cold.

Scottsdale is a city that breeds a different style of man. Three of them were in the Tommy Bahama store goggle-eyed over the stripe button-down collared slightly wrinkled shirts. You’ve seen them, the preppy types. Brown leather tasseled beach loafers with no socks, white Dockers ironed so the crease shows, pink golf shirt with a green palm tree and the words “Scottsdale Country Club” embroidered on the sleeve, and short hair that has been faux sun bleached spiked up with hair glue. “Let’s go get that appletini now, boys.”

Then there is the guy in plaid shorts and a blue T-shirt that says, “Spaced Out” with a picture of a Smurf. He also has Mohawk hair. Wait a minute…that’s my son…

And that’s Christmas time in the city…Merry Christmas, Trekkies, and to all a good night.