In a row of bright pastel synthetic tank tops over black stretch pants, they fell forward on one knee.
They didn’t fall in unison, of course. Down the length of the city block on a ritz-nice strip of North Center, in 10- to 15-foot increments save a few who stood side by side as they chatted and toppled, the women rose and fell in their own Roman Empires each on a different schedule.
Some would lunge forward on one leg as the others were straightening back to a stand. Others would be pulling a leg up walkabout flamingo-style as the ones in front of them toppled forward onto the leg they had raised a second before. Some would be at a perfect stand with hands on hips as the person right next to them was taking a moment to stretch the back leg’s hammie, arms akimbo, crotch dutifully aimed parallel to the ground.
But one by one, in this galumphy, disorganized array lasting a city block, the women in synthetic gear performed walking lunges in a row down the sidewalk. For fitness.
And I’m sure it’s great.
I’m sure it’s great for your glutes, your lats, your qualudes, your tri delts, your rhombusoidal missourisynods. I’m sure it tucks the tum, flats the ass, perks the perky bits.
But you look goddamn ridiculous.
“Yep,” I thought as I readjusted the shining white plastic bike helmet that had again slipped cockeyed like Graham Chapman’s crown in “Holy Grail.”
“Yep,” I thought as I made sure the red blinky light I had clipped to the back of said plastic hat was still going FLASH FLASH FLASHY FLASH.
“Yep,” I thought as I pedaled down the street with one pant leg poofing out of my right sock like a khaki Elizabethan ruff for cankles.
“Yep,” I thought. “Those people who aren’t me sure look ridiculous.”