So I’m trying to be diligent and dedicated and determined about setting aside some time in the afternoons to use the new-to-us elliptical machine. And I don’t even know if the term “elliptical machine” is correct – maybe you’re supposed to say “elliptical motion machine” – but seeing as how I don’t really run in fitness circles (nor do I really, you know, RUN AT ALL), I’m going with “elliptical machine” until someone tells me it’s wrong.
And even then I might not stop. Because I’m totally a rebel like that.
Anyway, the elliptical (sidenote: my mama would probably call it the “ellip” because she holds a special place in her heart for abbreviations, especially “fridge” and “mayo”) and I have been getting along pretty well so far. I mean, even though I have a love/hate relationship with exercise, I do find the elliptical machine to be the least offensive of all the many offensive exercise options that can fill me with dread and/or resentment on a daily basis.
And quite frankly I can’t think of a more ringing endorsement than that.
Earlier this week I decided that my afternoon elliptical time would be an excellent opportunity to catch up on Survivor and The Amazing Race, and that is exactly what I’ve done. I have reacquainted myself with Ozzie and Coach, with Ethan and Jenna. I’ve rolled my eyes while watching tribal councils and marveled that someone could lose a passport before she ever made it to an airport for the first flight of the race. Needless to say, it has been a precious reality TV time.
However, I’ve apparently been so intent on checking off my reality TV objectives that I haven’t spent enough time paying attention to my form on the elliptical motion machine / ellipitical machine / ellip. Because while I have no idea WHAT IN THE SAM HILL I’ve done, I can tell you with a great degree of certainty that all signs and symptoms seem to indicate that my right hip will NEVER, EVER BE THE SAME. It hurts when I sit down; it hurts when I stand up. It hurts when I walk; it hurts when I drive. And I’m tempted to tell you that it hurts when I seek my wool and flax and when I bring in food from afar, but I don’t want to push my luck. Even though I’m still totally tempted to tell you that my hip also hurts when I provide portions for my maidens and when I plant my vineyards.
I KNOW. I KNOW. I’LL STOP NOW.
The bottom line, I reckon, is that MAMAW’S HIP IS A-SMARTIN’. And I have no idea why. However, the good news is that there’s a certain way I can stretch that provides such blessed relief that it makes me want to sing Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life, so maybe if I just hold that position for the next 48 hours or so I’ll be good as new. I’m always a fan of a practical solution, you know.
Given all that, I reckon it’s time for me to go slather on the Icy Hot and watch an episode or four of Hee Haw. That Roy Clark is a STITCH, isn’t he? Not to mention that Grandpa Jones. Oh, he just tickles me to no end.
So if you need to find me, just follow the scent of menthol and methyl salicylate until you find me sitting on the heating pad and watching the Bulldogs play Georgia. Odds are that I won’t be doing much jumping up and down since MAMAW CAN’T TAKE THE PAIN, but I’ll still be forty-nine kinds of happy. College football cures a world of hurts, my friends.
Have a great weekend, everybody!
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p.s. If you’ve been on some sort of internet fast and haven’t seen Melanie’s big book news yet, please join the rest of us as we squeal and clap our hands. I’m so proud of her.
p.p.s. Today’s the last day of the OnStar FMV Mirror campaign; here’s my review if you’re interested.
p.p.p.s. Your comments on my last post are absolutely delightful. Well played, bloggy people!









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