No, it’s not the swimming pool. It’s not the hot tub. It’s not the gorgeous male trainers.
It’s the closed captions.
Some machines at the gym have TV monitors attached so users won’t become bored. A wise move.
My first day on the recumbent bike, I said to myself, “Oh, pish-tosh! I don’t need television. I have an active mind and a rich internal life.”
The second day, I discovered my internal life isn’t rich enough to keep me pedaling for twenty minutes without my active mind imploding. So–on with the TV. Since I hadn’t brought earbuds, I turned on the closed captions.
Viewing choices are limited: some cable movies, lots of sports, a travel show, all about as stimulating as watching your knees rise and fall. But one news station runs unscripted programs, most related to business and the economy.
And the closed captions for those unscripted programs are a hoot.
During one session, I managed to take notes. Here are some of the fragments I recorded. Remember, the program was about finance, and my knees were moving up and down at 9.4 mph.
Captions
1. … when people gathered to talk about the economy and cucumbers…
2. …too much of Peoria for political to sin…
3. …when like at Europe the monkey is struggling and falling apart…
4. …and to see Barry big surprise interest from some pastries…
5. …we have the armpit that all of our options fade with time…
6. …the importance of a kiwi in Europe…
7. …call the stow the hillbilly of what is coming…
8. …take on a ministry the comics not to forget…
9. …the markets found some milk without the markets coming up…
10. …learned from a tumor and people said a tomato…
All that in just one session of violent bodily exertion. What more could I want?
Yesterday earbuds were available, but plugging them in didn’t cross my mind. Nor did announcing my find.
Those captions are my own little secret. When other cyclers look my way, wondering why I laugh aloud, they can just wonder.
And when the rest of the health nuts have dropped out from indolence and ennui, and I alone register perfect attendance, and when the muscleiest trainer can’t drag me off the bike, the Powers That Be will admire, nay revere, me. And they will give me head pats.
Gad, I love those headpats.
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If you missed yesterday’s post about torture at the gym, you can read it at O Treachery, Thy Name Is Puller-Downer Thingey.
And yes, I’m pretty wiped out today.
Kathy Waller 