Previously on Does this Blog Make Us Look Fat…

Greta was ignoring signs from the Universe that she needs to get her butt in gear. The universe was cheesed off. Greta was sent to physical therapy to deal with postural flabitude (it is SO a word…the Universe said it). Here’s what happened…

I’ve tried and been burned before. So many times. My heart has hardened but my abs always revert to mush. Jane Fonda, Cindy Crawford, the Royal Canadian Airforce. I start out with big dreams of toned abs and sculpted arms, but I never entirely get there. Something always gets in the way. The gym’s too far, it’s too expensive, I’ll start next week, next month, I’ve got the flu, I’m pregnant, General Hospital’s on… Why should this time be any different?

But, there I was, in the physical rehab center adjacent to our Y. The place was filled with, high school and college athletes recovering from surgery, torn rotator cuffs, busted knees and dislocated shoulders; the cast of the Golden Girls; Lenny, the 87-yr old WII vet, single amputee wearing American Flag pajama pants (He could so totally have kicked my ass). I didn’t belong there, to be sure. I felt like the world’s biggest wussy compared to them.

Yeah, hi…I’m Greta. I…uh…my back hurts ‘cuz I sort of slouch in my computer chair.

I had every reason for cynicism. After all, I’ve worked for this flab. Those cheese curls, honeybuns and chocolate chip cookies couldn’t eat themselves. That couch in my living room was made for sitting.

Then he walked in. Five foot eleven and half inches of muscle and testosterone. And hair gel. He smelled good. I could tell from across the room. The pefect combination of ben-gay and ivory soap. His hands were broad and looked strong from years of working with them.  He looked over the top of his clipboard and smiled. Through a flash of white teeth, he said,”Greta? I’m Chad. Come with me.”

You betcha!

When I asked, he told me he was 22. Not quite young enough to be my son, but young enough to have had me for a babysitter. He was sweet, shy, and maybe just a little bit scared of me…and also of Lenny. We all were.

He said he was going to make a new woman out of me. Chad. My personal trainer and physical therapist.

“We need to build up your upper body strength. And your lower core. I’ll teach you,” he said. “But first, let me get the gel.”

“M-my fingers are numb,” I stammered.

“This will help.” Chad smiled as he wheeled in the ultra sound machine. He took the time to warm the gel in his hands before slaping it on my back. He told me it would help heal tissue damage. I believed him. Just a little. I was wearing a sports bra and had to lay face down for the procedure, so I couldn’t see his face. I’d soon learn what a blessing that was.

We need a new word for the DTBMULF dictionary, people.

Splayage.

That’s right. It’s what happens to your (muffin top) belly fat when you lay face down on a massage table. They cut a hole out for your face. Why, why, why can’t there be a hole for your splayage?

Chad met my splayage before he truly met me. I just tried to pretend it wasn’t there. If Chad noticed, he didn’t let on. His touch was gentle. Unflinching. In the background, I could hear Lenny whistling.

“Livia…yer a real ta-may-ta.” Lenny was clearly trying to make time with Estelle Getty near the whirl pool back there. God bless him.

Near my ear, Chad’s voice was as gentle as his hands as we made small talk over the soothing, soft whir of the ultrasound machine. He was staying with his parents until he finished school. In the winter, he’ll take an exam and graduate. By 2009, he’ll be a firefighter. Yes, his mother was a little worried. Bless his 22 year old soul. Next year at this time, he will look approximately like this…

 

But what about me? Can Chad finally help me tone this splayage into something splendid? Will I ever be able to sit at the computer and go numb from something other than bad posture? Will we ever find out what’s the dealio with Lenny’s pants?

To be continued…

*Homage the brilliant Pioneer Woman, one of the best blogs around.