As Seen on TeeVee

(Okay, okay: there wasn't a group waxing session at Blogher either.  There was a lot of booze, a lot of funny smart women and men, some useful information, and a lot of, well, a lot of booze. JenW brought a rolling cooler and even left us a spare. And Carolyn and I were interviewed on camera which was kind of like a freak show hilarious but can only mean one thing: next stop: Oprah! But that's over now... let's move on.)

The Kid is a hot piece, a professorial looking dude with a little dash of Allman Brother hippy. He coulda shoulda woulda been a professional hockey player, if not for a strange twist of fate. Instead he is a thinker and an ad writer and a decent guitar player and also (shall I send you a resume?), in need of a little -- cough cough -- tune-up. For three months, he's been obsessing over P90x. Don't know it? Stay up late and wait for the infomercial. It's like the Shamwow but for your abs.

Once I bought some cleaning product off the teevee that promised to make my crappy apartment into something shiny and new and smelling great too but instead it was pretty much an ice cream tub of solidified pink Palmolive. It did nothing to the tiles. It did nothing to the stove. My hands? Totally extra moisturized (and smelling great too!) but I learned my lesson. Which was mostly to avoid using a credit card after midnight.

Even knowing this, having lived through it, his P90x jones would not die, and the Kid, he broke down. Five days later it arrived: a set of DVDs, a giant jug of something powdery, some vitamins that seem like your basic Centrum, a pull-up bar that fits none of our doorways, and some stretchy things with handles that have since been flung/chucked/whipped/strewn all over my house.  I'm not sure who was more excited: him, or the Short Drunk People.

The Kid thinks I'm not supportive when I say that sitting on the couch with the remote and his feet up watching people exercise will not in fact build muscles; he says he's learning the moves. The Kid thinks I am a non-believer, so he buys 8 protein bars. When I won't try the "shake" he's made with blueberries and bananas and who knows what that powdery stuff is, he says I'm a wimp (which I am: gross). When the GFYO is found kick boxing and Sumo squatting in the playroom with the P90x DVDs blaring, I go out for an ice coffee and The Kid calls after me (from his laptop), "Muscle confusion -- IT BEGINS TODAY!" 

I nod my head, give him the thumbs up and drive off, visions of congealed pink Palmolive that lingered too long in my basement, thoughts of that relationship gone bad with the Columbia House Record Club. I am a skeptic at heart (except when it comes to psychics and ghosts). I've been burned two too many times.

Yesterday: he began. Rory wanted me to feel the sweat on his water bottle. Today: he completed Day Two. He wanted me to marvel at his soaking self. He is.actually.doing.it.

Somewhere, Billy Mays smiles at the Kid. Somewhere, Billy Mays knows what he began. Somewhere, my tub of crap cleaning product fills a landfill. But maybe, maybe this time, it will all work out.