So, I’m still in the throes of this P90X.  I want to stop, but it’s like I’m conditioned to get up and get working now.  In part, I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I stop. I know, I know, I’m too hard on myself and I’m being ridiculous. A lot of people say that doing DVDs and tapes at home gets boring after a while and I do think I’ve hit that point. Still, I like the results I’ve gotten.  Plus,  I do have a tendency to “belly up to the trough” at dinner time, so I have to balance things out.

I was finishing up the legs and back routine this morning, seriously contemplating just stopping mid- exercise when I thought, “Well, I did eat that bag of Sweet Moments last night. . and I don’t want to end up like the Juicy Woman”.

Ahhh, the Juicy Woman. I know I’ve told some of you this story shortly after it happened, but it’s a classic and bears repeating.

About a year or two ago, my dad and I had gone out to Target to pick up some odds and ends. My dad was still relatively new to the area having recently moved down from MA. He insisted on driving so that he could get a lay of the land and learn the routes from his house to various points of interest and so forth. So, we are leaving the Target and he’s behind the wheel, hands firmly at ten and two.

In the shopping center, there are a lot of speed bumps to slow folks down, but they are spaced about two feet apart, so getting from the parking lot to the main drag can take a few minutes. We’re creeping along, shoppers are circulating in the lot and in and out of the shops, life is humming all around us.

My dad pulls up to a speed bump just as a person emerges from Party City carrying an enormous bouquet of balloons. So many balloons, in fact, all you can see are her pink sweat-pants and sneakers hanging out of the bottom. We pause to let her cross in front of us and as she makes her way to her car, she turns her back to us. She’s built like a pear — narrow waist, with wide hips and buns. Written across the back of her pants are the letters, “J”, “U”, “C”, “Y”.

My dad hunches up over the wheel to get a good look, his nose all but touching the windshield (*smh*). He turns to me and asks, “What is jew-kee?”

I look over at the woman, now bent in double trying to jam the mass of balloons into her car without popping or losing any of them. The letters are jiggling with her motions, and I can’t help but laugh.

“It’s not jew-kee, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s says Juicy. Her crack just swallowed the “I”.