Running with Scissors

Sara Peterson-Davis has worked as a newspaper researcher and reporter, as well as a communications director and consultant. She and her husband, Monty Davis, can be found in Liberty, Mo., keeping their two children from running with scissors. Contact Sara

Twas the Night of Thanksgiving

‘Twas the night of Thanksgiving, and around our abode
We were beached on the couches, feeling like toads
The leftovers in the fridge did truly abound
Just waiting for the family to belly up for another round

The kids were zoning to a video on the telly
Their minds and their bodies were turning to jelly
And I in my fat pants and Pa in his jammies
Were practically comatose from the triple turkey portion tryptophan whammies

When out on the porch I heard such a clatter
I rolled off the davenport to see what was the matter
Away to the window I waddled with a puff
And slid open the blinds in a bit of a huff

The porch light gave an unusual glow
Gleaming on someone quite shiny below
When on what did my cholesterol-laden eyes did flick
But a buff old man flanked by eight aerobisized chicks

With the nod of his head covered with hair like a bubble
I knew we were in for some serious trouble
More lithe than ferrets they slipped in the door
And started to throw exercise mats all over my floor

Now, Karen! Now, Mindy! Now, Cindy and Tracey!
On, Sandy! On, Alex! On, Denise and Stacey! F
rom the top of their heads, to their feet on the ground
Not an ounce of unsightly fat could be found

As dry as rice cakes left out in the sun
These fitness-frenzied gals were not in this for fun
So up before the entertainment center they flew
And smiled as they smugly blocked our view

And then, with a drumbeat, they turned their heads spiky
They began prancing and pawing in their fresh white Nikes
As I stood up to make a complaint
In jumped Jack Lalanne, the original fitness saint

He was dressed all in spandex from his knees on up
And his ankles were as wrinkly as a SharPei pup
A bundle of workout equipment he had flung on his back
Along with some contraption that made healthy juice snacks

His eyes, eerily glowed! His skin, how leathery!
His cheeks were like wallets, his hair was quite feathery!
His wide toothy mouth was preparing to bark
“All get ready, and on your marks!”

His arms and his legs flailed back and forth
Working overtime to get our bodies to morph
He shouted for jumping jacks and exercises of all kinds
As we just stared, slack-jawed as if he’d lost his mind

He was insistent and pushy, a most self-righteous dude
And I grumbled out loud, “How incredibly rude!”
A clap of his hand and a twist of his obliques
Caused to the kids to announce, “This really reeks!”

He spoke not of moderation, but of a lifestyle quite rigid
And filled all our glasses with carrot juice most frigid
As we drank orange liquid and turned up our noses
He talked about how all that we flushed should start smelling like roses

With that we sprang to our senses and grabbing Jack and his sprites
Pushed them out the door and into the night
They stood in the yard all dismayed and confused
Disbelieving that anyone their instruction could refuse

Turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberries and fudge
No doubt holiday eating can add up to some pudge
But who would abandon cheesecake for carrot sticks?
And what about all the salty Chex Mix?

For the next 30 days let’s make one thing quite clear
During the holidays, Jack, you’re not welcome around here
Just let us enjoy our food in peace and quiet
And after New Year’s we’ll start on that diet

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