Tuesday, October 14, 2008

The Treadmill of Reverse Sexism

I had three main fears about taking the stress test:
  • I'd have a heart attack on the treadmill.
  • I would survive the actual test, but the results would definitively prove I did have a something more than an overactive imagination causing my occasional chest pains.
  • I'd survive, have a clean bill of health, but My Love would kick my ass in the time trials.
Face it, I have ceded most of my so-called manhood in this married life. She brings home the bacon, I save the drippings in a Martinson's coffee can for unspecified use at a later date; she manages the household expenses, I clip the coupons and take them to the Stop 'n' Shop on triple bonus cash back day. I'm cool with all this … because the chicks dig it … once they pick themselves up off the floor from the laughing … and call their husbands or boyfriends to goof on me.

However, I will not lose to My Love in a foot race.

Sure, she's completed four marathons and one half-marathon in the 17 years we've known each other. She's also kayaked across Long Island Sound while I was sidelined with panic attacks and seasickness. However, on land, in anything under a few thousand yards, she's eating my dust … assuming one creates dust when running under the weight of an imaginary elephant on his back.

No sooner did I stumble out of the torture chamber, uh, stress test room, I came across My Love in the waiting room, sipping on a vitamin water with a wedge of lemon and a little umbrella in it. (I might have been hallucinating from lack of oxygen, but I also think she was using a Crazy Straw.)

"How'd (cough) you (hack) do?" I asked.

"I did well," she said. "Made the 'good health' category."

"So (blech) did (wheeze) I!"

"I could have made 'excellent' but it would have meant two more minutes of torture on that machine."

"Me, too! (groan) Wanna find (ack) a supply closet?"

"Stop it."

"So," I asked, "what was your time?"

"I got the 'good' category."

"I know that, but what was your time?"

"I didn't know this was a competition?"

"It's not," I lied. "I'm just curious. I've given up on you ever telling me your weight, so humor me on this one."

"Bite me."

"Any time. Now what was your time? I did 22 minutes, 17 seconds. 'Fess up."

After throwing on my "concerned spouse" face and laying it on thicker than Cindy McCain's foundation, she confessed to doing a little more than 17 minutes.

"What?! Women only have to do 17 minutes to qualify for 'good'? What happened to equal rights? Did Bella Abzug wear those horrible hats in vain? I declare reverse sexism! Bi-as! Bi-as!"

But deep down, under the fa├žade of protest and insult, I laughed the laugh of man whose freshly shaved chest was swelling with personal pride. Or cardiac fluid.
Can I get a defib over here, stat? Go to Humor-Blogs.com, register and give me a smiley to jump start my heart and ranking.


  1. Always find out the goals first. It's easier to cheat that way.

  2. Are you ever so gently trying to profess your love for the HOFF? I think those that talk about him publicly actually LOVE HIM!!

    There, I've outed you. Don't you feel better?

    Btw, LOVE your blog!


  3. Oh and btw, my dad (prior to his heart transplant) DID have a heart attack while having a stress test.

    NOT FUN.

    Hallie :)

  4. i had to do that once in 2000. hated it. but survived.

    came here via manager mom and am enjoying the read. glad to see a dad rockin' the suburbs (just like quiet riot did... only they were talented....)


  5. I don't need no needle to be givin' me a thrill.
    And I don't need no anesthesia or nurse to bring a pill.
    I got a dirty down addiction that doesn't leave the track.
    I got a jolt for your affection like a monkey on my back.
    There ain't no paramedic gonna save this heart attack.

    Sorry, man. I tried not to do that obvious Bon Jovi thing on the last post, probably because I was dead, thanks to you, but this time, I just couldn't help it.

    Besides, I got a jones for your affection like a monkey on my back.

    Dammit. Did it again. Sorry. Just know that, if anything happens, I'll be there for you. These five words I swear to you...

  6. Mmmmmmm...mmmmmmmmm....

    Bacon Grease made me the Athlete I am today.

    Thanks, Bacon!

  7. I always wondered what those jars of bacon fat were doing on people's kitchen counters.

    Now I realize, it was the stay-at-home parent's way of keeping his or her part of the bacon-bringing bargain.

    Does this mean I need to get me a mason jar and a sieve?

    Thanks for stopping by Sweet Life!

  8. Torturing yourself like that ... dammit man, you'll be too weak to clip the coupons!

  9. Heinous - You should change your name to "genius."

    Weiners - It was that drunken burger rage that did me in for the Hoff. And see, I don't you the stress test is a trap.

    Amusing - Manager MILF is a good woman. I interview her tomorrow on DadCentric.

    FADKOG - No wonder my heart skips a beat.

    CIII - I was a Mathlete and I have no shame in that.

    Andrea - You know, I don't know why we have one either. I just think its some mandatory reg from the National Bacon Grease Council. Or in case we run out of that "special sauce"

    Chris - It's pathetic that I have to lug the entire circular up to the counter.

  10. Well, 23 could be a little more than 17.....just saying. Did Your Love give you an actual time? (sorry, couldn't resist)

  11. Wait - when are triple coupon days at Stop & Shop???

  12. The chest is swelling with PRIDE!!! 22 minutes trumps 17 any day. Hold your head high these are glorious times.

    Just be careful about the bacon drippings. That might bring you down to 17.

  13. I'll say to you what the P.E. coaches used to say to me when I would straggle in at the end of the 600-whatever-yard thing for the President's Physical Fitness Test:

    "Good effort. Good effort. Way to hustle."

    Does that help at all? Because I always thought it sounded a tad insincere.

    ;^) Anna


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