So, My Gym Called Me Today...

They noticed that they haven't seen me yet this year and want to know if there's anything they can do to get me to come in? As is my usual way I was extremely polite and only slightly apologetic and said that life was full of crap and I only narrowly missed a complete nervous breakdown and/or a complete fatal bout of consumption and that I should make an appearance without any lures or special intervention in a few weeks.

While in the line at the cheap-o grocery store where I was buying some extremely expensive meaty baby food* (but only 18 beers!**) I was thinking about all the interesting facial hair in evidence on this fine Sunday evening. It's not often one sees an abundance of facial hair at the grocery store. Except that what I was realizing is that Winco seems to attract the hairy sort because there are always at least three or four "mountain men" types in line wearing their greasy flannel shirts and super-bushy beards and this line of thought makes me immediately examine my chin hair situation because I'm suddenly wondering if anyone else has observed the hairiness of the clientele at Winco and included me in their line-up of examples.

Thankfully I have recently removed all visible chin-hairs and by some miracle of every saint possible I have actually recently shaved my legs and their five-o-clock shadow isn't yet visible thanks to the early changing of the clocks which fools only fools.

I was realizing how much I was longing to buy a gossip rag. I haven't bought one for myself since August. I did get two or three as sweet surprises from my thoughtful sweet husband who knows I'm no longer buying them and appreciates how much I thrive on the guilty pleasure of knowing all about how sleazy Angelina Jolie is. It was coming to me then, while these thoughts were surfacing, that there may be something the gym could do to drag bring me back into the fold.

A list began to form in my head on my way home, just as I jetted out of a green light with an acceleration that would have impressed every seven year old I've ever met; reaching 40 miles per hour in about 60 seconds flat...it came to me then; the answer to the question the perky fit lady on the phone had asked me; was there anything the gym could do to pry me off of my fat ass and into their super duper fitness facility?

Yes.

Yes, indeed. I think there are one or two things they could do:

• Line the road between me and them with apple fritters.

• Stuff my gym shoes with hundred dollar bills.

• Offer to switch my body for Queen Latifah's when she's not looking.

• Massage my shoulders while I toil on the elliptical.

• Promise to love me forever and ever.

• Swear not to laugh at me if I wear my tiara in for a work out.

• Build me a private room so I don't have to violently accuse of anyone staring at my giant posterior bouncing around like a pudding on fire.

• Hire Richard Armitage to be my personal trainer but stipulate that he must not fall in love with my luscious self.

• Provide me with an endless stash of unread trashy magazines because even though Heidi Montag appears to be just one of a thousand dull talentless blond people in Hollywood, I'm dying to know how she was betrayed by someone named Spence.

I don't think I ask for too much. I am a plain woman with simple needs. I am a woman with beer tastes on a water budget, but other than that...I'm every-woman. I'm you if you were really in touch with your low budget self.

(This would be as good a time as any to go and take my meds.)

Exit stage left.

*It's not what you think.
**ha ha

Dear Mr. Thornton
(in which Angelina writes a letter to a fictional character)

Dear Mr. Thornton,

I am writing to let you know that I believe there is some proof that Elizabeth Gaskell was completely shnockered when she failed to bring you and I together 150 years ago when she brought you to life in her terribly affecting book "North And South" and instead decided to make you fall for that irritatingly perfect female she called "Margaret Hale". You may not feel that such a terrible mistake was made, but that is only because you have not been made aware of my massive attractions which would most certainly trump Margaret's any day.

First of all, I would like to point out that with me there is no artifice. What you see is what you get: all 225 lbs of me. There's no risk that you will have to watch my wasp waist grow larger every year due to my supreme happiness (and butter), as is inevitable with the younger wives. You won't have to see my waistline disappear because it's been fully three years since I last had one and it's doubtful I'll have one again any time soon. I think you'll find yourself growing fond of my girth in no time at all.

While the permanently blood shot eyes may seem like a detraction at first glance, you will begin to prize how comfortable they make everyone feel around me. Workers in the mill will not strike because they'll know that at heart you are a stand up man with a wife who is capable of working for forty eight hours straight in candle light and therefore is basically just like them. So what could appear to be an unattractive feature will become a real fiscal asset. No one needs to know that I got them from smoking three packs of cigarettes a day when I was eighteen years old.

Secondly, I love cotton. It's my favorite fiber besides silk and wool.

I will admit that our love may face many challenges. My husband is not likely to let me go without a duel. He's not generally a violent man, but I make the best cherry tart in the world and no man worth his salt would let a woman with such culinary skills go without quite a large fuss. There is only a 40% chance that he'll actually kill you.

Margaret may be gorgeous, have clear eyes, and be the sweetest girl in the world, but she's a wuss in the kitchen. She's always making you aspic and probably doesn't let you eat cheese either. She probably makes you suck the marrow from beef bones when you're sick. I would never do that to you.

It is only fair to warn you that you must never (NEVER) wear a mullet or I will withhold all cherry tarts until said hideous hair has grown out. I hate to be all shrewish at the very start but I speak my mind and like all good heroes I know that you prefer your women that way.

For the record I would also like to point out that, unlike Margie, I never once doubted that your habit of darkly brooding from every possible angle hid a naturally good nature. Even when I saw you cruelly beating that factory worker; he was a waster anyway. Anyone could see that for themselves. That incident in no way made me believe you to be unsuitable for romantic meetings at train stations. I'm a steady lass that way.

I think you may be beginning to see what an injustice Elizabeth Gaskell has done you. You may be starting to think she's treated you pretty shabbily. I couldn't agree more which is why I think we need to run off post haste! My plan is to re-enact the train scene over and over again forever. I haven't seen the proposal scene because I missed the fact that it was included on the first disc (which in no way indicates a feebleness of mind) so I may want to re-enact that one over and over too once I've finally seen it. There's no way to be certain right now, though surely you won't mind either way.

I'm concerned that there doesn't seem to be a way to get around the fact that one of the things that makes you so attractive is your steadiness of character (in addition to the brooding) which indicates that you would never commit adultery and if you did it would make you a lot less attractive. I have to confess that I share the trait of constancy and have so far always considered it terribly wrong to kiss married men, especially if you yourself are married.

Please write me soon and tell me how we may overcome the obstacles to our love!

Before I leave you to your very broody thoughts about aspic, let me warn you that there are two women who will be trying to wedge themselves between us. One of them is named Karmyn and she will try to trick you into believing that the child she is bearing is yours, even though you are fictional and she is not, and everyone knows that a union between fictional characters and real people can't produce children and the other one's name is Chelsea. You really need to watch out for Chelsea because she's got light green eyes that will hypnotize you and she can make the Dali Lama fight for one of her blueberry muffins but she won't be constant to you at all. I'm pretty sure she's also got an understanding with that guy from "Horatio Hornblower".

I'll see you soon on episode four in just a few minutes...until then, avoid eating Margaret's hog drippings disguised as "sauce".

Your own,
Mrs. Williamson