The man who we thought would never die has died. Jack Lalanne is finally gone, but he lasted 96 years. I always imagined he would meet his end in poetic justice, either having a barbell crush his head or being turned into juice by one of his giant turbo-engine juicers. Instead, he died peacefully of pneumonia in his Los Angeles home this week. He is now in Public Broadcasting Heaven joining Julia Child who also lasted into her nineties. Jack was to exercise what Julia was to food. Whatever weight Julia helped us gain, Jack helped us loose. They were the first of their kind, coming into the homes of millions Americans when television was still black and white, to show us how to cook and exercise for the first time, back when working -out was called calisthenics and Ripped Bod was called a Physique.
One of the millions of homes Jack was invited into every morning was mine. I'm not sure in how many other of those millions of homes was there a mother who was exercising naked in front of the T.V. as her eight year-old son counted reps for her. I would watch from her huge antique four-post bed as my mother Priscilla huffed and puffed.
"Down to floor for bicycle kicks!" Jack ordered.
She dropped to the carpet with hands behind her head, legs up and knees bent.
"And kick, and kick, and kick!" he ordered on.
I counted "... 29, 30, 31..." as she peddled into the air.
" Up for Jumping Jacks!" he switched commands.
She shot up from the floor and started jumping up and down. She did her best to follow the cues but her arms and legs and boobs and hair all moved at different speeds every time she tried them. She just wasn't good at following directions, for either exercising or motherhood. She did perfect the bicycle kicks though, able to do them fully clothed in the front seat of our Cadillac turned towards my father as he was driving the whole family on an icy road one of many stormy winters.
Her morning naked calisthenics were the last time I saw a vagina, or The Bermuda Triangle as I had named it. If one single thing turned me gay AND made me stutter, that could have definitely done it. Unfortunately I stuttered already so I can't pin that on her, but as far as the gay thing goes, her naked bicycle kicks certainly didn't help me turn any straighter.
Ten years ago, when I described this to my ex-boyfriend Brian, he pointed out that I did my ab work-out naked in front of him. I argued it was not the same, that my naked ab routine wasn't half as traumatizing as hers, but he still called me Priscilla every time I did them. I realized I had been doing naked abs in front my second ex-boyfriend Pepe before Brian and my first ex-boyfriend Scott before Pepe.
It's scary to think that I have naked exercising in common with my mother. Not to the mention the fact that out of three children, I'm the one who looks most like her. Put a wig on me at Halloween and the similarity is frightening, especially to me. How much do you have to look like a person to start acting like them too? Is there a science behind it, and a pill to prevent it?
My mother still exercises but now its in a gym, and I assume she's at least wearing a leotard. All that exercising back in her twenties in front of the TV has kept her in remarkable shape, along with plastic surgery and the boob- job she had in her 50's. She's 71 and is showing no sign of slowing down. I guess I have Jack Lalanne to thank for this. But let me tell you, if she's going to live to 96 too, just please drop a barbell on my head right now.
One of the millions of homes Jack was invited into every morning was mine. I'm not sure in how many other of those millions of homes was there a mother who was exercising naked in front of the T.V. as her eight year-old son counted reps for her. I would watch from her huge antique four-post bed as my mother Priscilla huffed and puffed.
"Down to floor for bicycle kicks!" Jack ordered.
She dropped to the carpet with hands behind her head, legs up and knees bent.
"And kick, and kick, and kick!" he ordered on.
I counted "... 29, 30, 31..." as she peddled into the air.
" Up for Jumping Jacks!" he switched commands.
She shot up from the floor and started jumping up and down. She did her best to follow the cues but her arms and legs and boobs and hair all moved at different speeds every time she tried them. She just wasn't good at following directions, for either exercising or motherhood. She did perfect the bicycle kicks though, able to do them fully clothed in the front seat of our Cadillac turned towards my father as he was driving the whole family on an icy road one of many stormy winters.
Her morning naked calisthenics were the last time I saw a vagina, or The Bermuda Triangle as I had named it. If one single thing turned me gay AND made me stutter, that could have definitely done it. Unfortunately I stuttered already so I can't pin that on her, but as far as the gay thing goes, her naked bicycle kicks certainly didn't help me turn any straighter.
Ten years ago, when I described this to my ex-boyfriend Brian, he pointed out that I did my ab work-out naked in front of him. I argued it was not the same, that my naked ab routine wasn't half as traumatizing as hers, but he still called me Priscilla every time I did them. I realized I had been doing naked abs in front my second ex-boyfriend Pepe before Brian and my first ex-boyfriend Scott before Pepe.
It's scary to think that I have naked exercising in common with my mother. Not to the mention the fact that out of three children, I'm the one who looks most like her. Put a wig on me at Halloween and the similarity is frightening, especially to me. How much do you have to look like a person to start acting like them too? Is there a science behind it, and a pill to prevent it?
My mother still exercises but now its in a gym, and I assume she's at least wearing a leotard. All that exercising back in her twenties in front of the TV has kept her in remarkable shape, along with plastic surgery and the boob- job she had in her 50's. She's 71 and is showing no sign of slowing down. I guess I have Jack Lalanne to thank for this. But let me tell you, if she's going to live to 96 too, just please drop a barbell on my head right now.
