Fringe

I have always thought of myself as somewhat athletic. If not athletic, then at least agile. I dove competitively in HS and college and even had a brief stint with pole vaulting at SUU. I like to run. I like to hike. I like exercise. Because of these reasons, my thought to pick up the stretch bands and hand weights the other night when Lily went down early and Chris was at tennis did not, initially, seem like such a wild hare (or is it 'hair'?).
I dug the 8 pounders out of the cabinet and put on a sports bra and a new attitude. Upper body and abs shouldn't be out of my realm. I have an empty house, a couple of season premiers on television and some new motivation in the form of the excess movement around my mid section and thighs whenever I move quickly. It has been a little over a year and a half since real, sweaty, exercise has been a part of my life. As it turns out, the "use it or lose it" bit actually holds some water.
As I switch on the TV I start feeling even better. Just the idea of working out has edged the endorphins out of hibernation. I start bouncing to House's angry diatribe and punching the air in my kitchen/living room. I add a few kicks. My knee starts to whine and I remind myself to not get in over my head. I do a few more minutes of faux-cardio and then sit on a towel to begin the strength training portion of my work-out. I take the latex bands in my hands and wrap them around my feet that are outstretched in front of me. I pull back a few times. Ouch! That hurts. Maybe I should try something else. I remember something my mom told me about working out your chest muscles first so I fling the bands around my back and hold one handled end in each hand. I pull forward. ONE. Release. TWO. Release. THR--OUUUUUUCCCCCCH! The band suddenly rolled up my back and neck pulling the first two inches of hair at the nape of my neck with it.
So there I am. Stuck in a latex noose. Alone. Wearing a purple sports bra. I try to relax the tension I have on the cords but quickly find that it then entangles more hair in the evil, Chinese finger trap at my neck. I can't pull out further because, well, I am a wimp who counts walking to the mailbox twice as exercise lately and even if I could go-go gadget my arms further out it would only rip the hairs out of my neck. I try to quickly yank the band away from my neck, coming to terms with the hair-loss this requires. PAINNNNNNN! Unfortunately my hair density at the base of my necks is lacking. To pull the caught hairs would mean bringing the skin along. Frack.
I consider my options. Wait until Chris comes home. I can't imagine holding this position for another minute let alone an hour. My arms are engaged remember? I could call Chris and tell him to come home.
"Chris, come home quick I am tangled in the exercise bands."
"The what bands?"
"The exercise ones. You know the purple ones. Well, one is orange, you know they are in the cabinet with the- gah! it doesn't matter I am tangled, come home and save me."
"I am playing tennis."
"And I am dying a death of slow scalping! Am I on speaker phone?"

A little two much "The Injury" from The Office for me. plus, how would I dial the phone? This gets me thinking. Maybe I could get one hand out and then untangle my hair. I take my right foot and lift it as high as it will go: About three inches off the ground. I scrunch my back down, being careful to keep the tension even on my death trap. I slip my toes into the handle and take my hand out. AAAAAAH. I am rocking on my now unevenly placed butt cheeks, my leg not being as dextrous as my hand is not so good at holding a steady tension.
I really should have known better. Genetics was against me. It was only a matter of time until I encountered an embarrassing exercise incident. My mother once dropped a hand weight on her big toe. She couldn't walk right for weeks. She lost the nail, of course, but it was a complicated recovery full of ingrown toenails and frequent stubbings.
On a separate occasion, my mother once tripped during an aerobics class obstacle course. She was a little short jumping over a box of some sort, caught her toes, fell over a padded something and hit her nose on a mini tramp. Blood bath.
My father was once on the losing end of a battle with a broken kick boxing bag. No, that isn't true. I do feel like I am picking on mom a bit, though. Back to the story:
My hair! My neck! Who cares? What is that on TV? Scary images are flashing before my eyes! What happened to House? I could use him about now. Not some scary JJ Abrams X-files meets Lost! Felicity too tame for you buddy? I start ripping the hairs out of my neck one by one, still with foot in handle. I am just praying Chris doesn't bring his buddies in but also praying that he comes soon. I am stuck with a horror show in front of me and swiveling on my one grounded cheek to change the channel is out of the question. I tried. It hurt.
I finally get the latex monster off my back (or neck) and throw it (and a good chunk of my hair) to the side. Maybe I should stick to swimming. I am sticking to Felicity. Fringe was frightening.