No oil can for this Tin Man

In this world, there are very few folks who enjoy the self-imposed torment my elderly kinfolk call “taking the exercise.” Admittedly, I’m among the mass majority that doesn’t experience euphoria while jogging (and huffing) up hills, gliding (and sliding) on the elliptical machine, and summiting (and suffering) imaginary peaks on the local gym’s Stairmaster. I undergo such physical agony for one lone reason: I’m cash-strapped and can’t afford to grow out of my current clothes.

Among the numerous exercise drills I deplore, squats top the list. Not only is this knee-bending, rear-raising routine aesthetically awkward, it’s darned difficult as well, and in my case – disastrous. So last weekend, when my sister’s fiancé, Justin, accompanied me to the gym for an hour-long training session that involved several sets of squats, I was not the happiest future sister-in-law.

Against my better judgement, I sacrificed my out-of-shape physique to Justin’s torture training session. Although the workout consisted of more than the up and down, leg trembling techniques I equate with hell on earth, it was the secession of squats that led to my near collapse.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” I muttered, as Justin instructed me to lower my hindquarters closer to the floor. And then, after miraculously maneuvering myself in a miserable, seated upright position, it was over.

Or so I thought.

Minor muscle stiffness settled in the next day. Its gradual onset tricked my brain into believing that brotherhood’s brutality was but a mere, fading memory.

Yet, even the mind falls prey to deception. And by bedtime, as I lay among a pillar of pillows and my childhood stuffed cow, I awakened to a sore reality.

The next workday’s gait was a series of knee-buckling stilted shifts, similar to that of the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Like the shiny, clanking Tin Man, I also squeaked. Yet such squeaks sounded more like yelps, and sometimes hollers, issuing forth from my contorted mouth – not from the rusted, hinged joints of my kindred spirit.

Clad in ruby spiked heels, I clumsily shuffled back and forth from my gray-paneled cubicle to the office water fountain, seeking a remedy to the scratchy throat I’d acquired from the aforementioned yelps. And as a result of frequent fountain trips, I later limped to the one-seater bathroom adjacent our newsroom. After securing the single latch lock to the chipped wooden door, I grimaced and grabbed both sides of the wobbling toilet seat as my trembling thighs collapsed with an echoed thud on the commode.

“This must be what the old folks feel like,” I grumbled later, while squirting pink commercial bathroom soap onto my hands and lathering them for the second time.

Bumping free from the bathroom door, I shuffled towards the Advertising Department again, tripping when a rebellious foot freed itself from my high heel shoe.

“Are you ok?” Mama asked that evening, as I slowly stumbled up the back steps barefoot, clutching my wretched red heels in one hand while leaning forward, reaching for the kitchen screen door with the other.

“I’m off to see the wizard,” I jokingly hummed as I hugged her good evening.

That night at dinner, I said little and ate a lot. And then I retired to my little upstairs nook, where I collapsed onto my bed.

As I lay beneath my rose patchwork quilt, I realized that despite the comforts of my cushioned mattress, I would suffer a sore slumber. Discomfort’s a sure source for insomnia, so I had ample time to contemplate the culprit in my current condition – my lack of common sense. And as my waking moments surrendered to sleep, I dreamed the line of a familiar Wizard of Oz melody…

“If I only had a brain …”