The Write Woman's Son Needs Balls (Hitting the 20's at 29 Days)

"I think you're a little too old mom," my daughter says when I exclaim 'I'm hitting my twenties.' When the point is that exercising speeds the body, thinking, metabolism, and energy expand when a person works out, I had quit. That's right. I didn't go to the gym for about three months, and the twenty pounds I had lost all came back with a vengeance, mostly in the form of innocent looking Mountain Dew and STRESS! The stress, which would've been somewhat alleviated by working out. So, upon discovering I had 116 pages I was to read for school today, I decided it was the perfect time to hit the gym in the morning and bring my book.

There isn't a crowd in the early hours, and the sound system occasionally has lyrics, but not too many to block out. I turned on the machine and set it for an hour with water towel and book in place. But then he came in. You know, the little guy with teeny tiny tank top and tinier trunks with so much body hair if it wasn't for the white piping on his clothes you might think he was naked? It was as if gravity has some affect on his hairline as the hair melts from the top of his head to spill across his shoulders and back. But that wasn't crossing the line, after all, there's no law against being disgustingly hairy, so much he may have been a Komondor in a previous life. I refocused on my book and read more -- until the living rug started singing "Bang, Bang!" by a trio of single vocalists. Somehow it lost its appeal when he sang it though.
I turned on the headset, plugged into the machine, and for the first time I was relieved to hear sweet static. I turned it up and sank deep into my studies.

Getting home my son showed me a video of a guy giving women advice. Just what I need, as if I'm going to listen to a guy tell me my approach to men is wrong. The guy went on to say there are times when a man wants a woman to need him. Just tiny things. Things I can do on my own, I'm supposed to act like I can't do them, or I'm incapable? Yes! It's part of the mating ritual, which some refer to as "the game." My son suggested I play. I don't know, I might. Afterward my son relays to me that he is in need of balls. I was about to tell him, "I'd say!" but my facial expression must have given it away because he reminded me that I'd told him yesterday I would purchase some smelly shoe decanters for his soccer shoes. I just don't know why he can't get his balls from his dad.  So how can he suggest I act more feminine and then come to me for balls? Men!

I need the exercise--every bit I can get. So I'm off to Walmart to move among the troves of cattle roaming through the market in search of balls. I'm too old for this!