While Christmas- and birthday-shopping yesterday, I noticed this gem on the clearance shelf: Richard Simmons’ Latin Blast-Off workout tape. I read the overly-enthusiastic blurb on the back of the box while Gary wandered off and pretended he wasn’t with the crazy lady contemplating a Richard Simmons purchase, but for 50 cents, I thought hey, it’s gotta be good for at least a few laughs, right?
Unbeknownst to Gary, he would soon be roped into trying out the new workout with me. He laughed dismissively when I first suggested it, then realized I was serious and seemed to strategize a reckless bolt for the door, but in the end, he was a good sport and took a spot beside me as I popped the tape into the VCR.
Okay, so our initial doubt about buying the workout tape proved to be sound, but I was right at least about the laughs. Richard Simmons doesn’t cue worth a flip, or give any indication what the next step is going to be, or even let you learn one step before rushing on to another convoluted set of choreography, so we floundered around the living room, laughing and yelling out, “Wha…?” punctuated with the occasional frustrated obscenity. We had near collisions from turning in the wrong direction, and neither of us exactly cut a convincing Latin figure as we dramatically and unselfconsciously shook our hips all over the room. The cats watched us with wide-eyed wonder at who would feed them once we were carted off for the sanitarium.
Every now and then, when I glanced at Gary to check out his latest rendition of the cha-cha or salsa, he was examining me with a “Why me?” bewildered look on his face, similiar to the look he gave me when we shared a Tae Bo DVD the other night. He didn’t say it, but I could hear “I’m not sure if I’d rather just be back in jail” in his expression.