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I was just down in the gym in my building, trudging forward to nowhere on the eliptical and spacing out to the wall TVs. I was plugged into my iPod, so I couldn’t hear exactly what Maury Povich was saying, but the chyrons (those little blurbs that appear under someone’s face as they speak) were cracking me up.

One read, “Says he didn’t cheat, hickey came from dog.” The other, something like “Swears he didn’t cheat on Heather with best friend Steven.” The most baffling one read (and I’m getting the names wrong), “Tests prove David had sex with several of Kim’s family members.” I cannot imagine what kind of test (except maybe a DNA test on resulting offspring) could prove such a thing. Did they submit to rape kits for Maury Povich? Really, really not worth it.

But it got me thinking about what my Formerly chyron would read if we all had them floating under our chins as we walked around and living our lives. Here are a few that came to mind for me, so far today:

• “Is banking on crease on face from pillowcase fading before book interview”
• “Is wearing the wrong bra”
• “Doubts existence of the right bra” (more…)
  

Lately, getting to the gym has been a struggle. Used to be, I was pretty good about it—four, five times a week, even when I was feeling a little logy. No, especially when I felt a little logy, because I chose to believe what all the women’s magazines I write for have said: That working out gives you energy, even as you expend energy climbing endlessly to nowhere on a machine made by someone who must have had a terrible childhood. (more…)