minalisms

Every Sunday, Ben and I spend time with his parents — dad in the morning and mom in the evening. The day comforts me, because I get to be around parents, even if they’re not my parents. (But will be.) 

This past Sunday evening with Ben’s mom, Suzy, was especially entertaining because she not only bought a Wii, but a Wii Fit package. 

I don’t know how many people have a Wii Fit, but let me start off by saying that it’s freaking fabulous. It’s like having a personal trainer — in the form of a cyborg, no less — right at home.

Giddy like kids on Christmas, the three of us took turns playing with the new toy. We ecstatically set up our very own Mii profiles, picking silly hairstyles, and nose shapes before we could begin our workouts. 

But then came the disturbing part: We each had to post our age, height and weight to go with our Miis, which, of course, caused me to have a fit — no pun intended. After a bit of coaxing I put on my brave suit and posted my numbers.

According to Wii Fit’s calculations, my current body mass index puts me at the overweight side of the scale. Big surprise — I mean, isn’t that what I’ve been blogging about forever? But also, with the data I inputted, the Wii calculated my real age, my “Wii Fit Age”, which turned out to be ….

*DRUMROLL PLEASE*

… an unimpressive 31.

I scowled. I don’t need to be two years older than I actually am, not when the number is based upon health.

But then my 33-year-old fiancé got his results. And thank god he’s got a sense of humor because it turns out he’s 45.

45!

Ben and I have lots to work on.

My cat is situated 6 feet across from me, on the arm of the sofa, sleeping with one eye open.

Gizmo has trust issues.

I wonder where she picked them up.

I don’t know whether it was the fitful night of sleep, the overcast skies, the jitteriness from a too-large coffee, the empty stomach, the five-hour-long missing-cat episode or the donation of my cute clothes to a skinny friend, but today climaxed in big, sloppy tears.

To all the generous friends and relatives who have been helping me plan my fall wedding, I promise you that, no matter the mounting stress, I will not become a Bridezilla.

With that being said, I will tell you that I’m a hardass when it comes to deadlines, and that just can’t be helped.

Dear Sarah Palin,

You sound like a broken record.

Please stop talking because your voice drives me crazy, and your party’s repetitive spin equates to nails on a chalkboard.

Exactly what makes you think that hunting Hockey Moms are qualified to lead our country? Sure, I can relate to your down-to-earth demeanor and respect your family-first philosophy, but guess what? I’m not looking for anyone described as an “average American” governing higher offices in the United States. Average doesn’t cut it when it comes to leadership. Yet you, with your beauty-pageant charm and good looks, have convinced hordes of Americans that average is enough. Way to inspire. I suppose your campaign believes excellence as overrated.

And going back to that Republican spin you spew, why not share something of substance at your next campaign stop? Who are you, Sarah Palin? Tell me something other than your Bridge to Nowhere story, something other than your Executive Jet on eBay story, something other than low blows and falsehoods about your Democratic opponents.

Or, on second thought, don’t. Just stop talking.

Thanks, Sarah. Thanks but no thanks for the exaggerations, half-truths and down-right lies.

Sincerely,

minal.