My darling wife, Miz Judge Oaf, has a new hobby.

Or rather, my love has returned to a former hobby that I had thought she had mercifully forgotten. Miz Judge Oaf has set herself the task of reforming me.

Literally.

She punched a big hole in my Visa card and bought us (read "me") a NordicTrack exercise machine. Now, I will be the first to admit that the long hours I have spent on the bench, dispensing high, middle and low justice to you, my grateful and adoring citizenry, have added a majestic, noble bearing to my already Zeus-like form. Recently, though, my bearing has taken on a noticeable sag, and my form seems to emulate that of Bacchus rather than Zeus. Ever observant, not to say meddling, my Hera had the solution, and the wherewithal, cash-wise, to implement it, her manifesto based on the ringing war-cry, "No woman likes to be crushed!"

As a result, ol' "Zeus" is on a diet and exercise regimen the like of which would have caused a galley slave to mutiny. No more beer, no more pizza, no more bread, no more coffee (!) and especially no more sugar. This madness has been going on for six weeks or so. I find myself sixteen pounds lighter, and thinking lascivious thoughts about pillaging my local Pizza Hut. (Yeah, gimme a large, all-meat cardiac clogger, and keep 'em coming, my Mastercard's got unlimited credit!)

The real bane of my regimen is the damned NordicTrack. I grew up in western North Carolina and did some cross-country skiing now and again. My buds and I used to get beered up and do our own version of the biathlon: do some skiing, down a six-pack, and dispose of the empties with a couple of well placed double-ought blasts from my twelve gauge. After five miles or so, we were out of beer, ammo, any sense of direction, and didn't care one bit.

Well, this new mechanical thingie is supposed to emulate the easy, rhythmic, flowing motions of cross-country skiing that I'd known as a boy.

"Thirty minutes, three times a week" it says in the TV commercials.

Bull.

First off, Miz Judge Oaf has taken the TV advertisement at its word, and has me on a crash exercise schedule. Her reasoning is that if three times a week is good, SIX times a week should be even better. (Aagh!)

Second, the thing looks like some '90's version of a medieval torture rack. Which, of course, it is. Once you get going, (IF you get going!) the diabolical machine begins to take on a life of its own. If you don't maintain your current pace, surprise! "it" will see to it that you do. I'm finding that I have to think about twelve moves ahead with this damned thing, otherwise, I'm on it a lot longer than I either want or care to be.

The third gripe I've got with this thing is the amount of floor space it takes up. As it is not seemly to have it reside in our living room, and since my den is off-limits to all but me, the NordicTrack is therefore esconced in my (our) bedroom, parked like some rejected eight foot long Calder sculpture at the foot of my (our) bed.

My toes have become intimately acquainted with this infernal machine, having been rudely stubbed by it upon numerous occasions when I am trying to find my nocturnal way to the toilet. I swear the thing changes position while I sleep, because I never clobber the same set of toes twice.

Yet, for all the hell I've been put through, the only thing that prevents me from having at this monster with a very large axe is the job it's doing on Miz Judge Oaf. For you see, she's working out, too.

My darling wife is losing her cute little pot-belly, and is getting some tone back in her lovely legs as well. But the real improvement has been to her 40D bust. Because there is a lot of arm and shoulder movement involved, those wifely lats and deltoids are firming up nicely, thank you! What this means is that her spectacularly cantilevered, head-turning bosom is slowly losing its sag, and returning its former (oh joy!), "prominence". If this keeps up, she won't need to wear a bra any more. Just like our courtin' days, hee hee hee!

So, I guess the "infernal machine" stays where it is, at least for now.

Besides, there is nothing Miz Judge Oaf can wear that is as sexy as the sheen of her own perspiration.

Ummm hmmmm!

'Scuse me, I gotta go do something about this.

Court's adjourned (c'mere, darlin'...)

Judge Oaf
Senior Judge of the Superior Court of the BEArchive