Every so often, when I think no one’s watching, I turn to Delilah’s sappy radio show on my car-radio dial and curse at her and the sappy 16-year-old who’s called in to request a sappy song for her BFF-Since-Junior-High.  And inevitably, Delilah will pick some love song from the eighties to which I know every word, to which I can’t NOT sing along, something like, oh, “That’s What Friends Are For.” 

Like she did tonight.  When I was driving through the back roads of Belle Meade in the darkness, just me, myself, and I and a bunch of fancy mansions for company.  (Read: No one around to catch me singing along with the car radio, something you should never be caught doing because you don’t want anyone to think you’re a weirdo.  Singing along with the car radio by yourself is weird ― everyone knows that.)

And not that I’m bragging or anything, but I sound really terrific singing “That’s What Friends Are For.”  I can do all the voices and all the harmonies and even the instrumental parts (with my voice).  As I do tonight, with exuberance.  “And I…never thought I’d feel this way…” 

I’m just getting into it, really moving now, when some car has the audacity to drive up behind me on the same road.  Now what am I supposed to do?  It’s not like I can stop singing.  Not this song, not even if I tried.  Anyway, it’s dark, and the driver can’t see me singing from way back there, so I shine on, “Keep smilin’, keep shinin’, knowin’ you can always count on me…for sure…that’s right baby (I added that last part – nice, huh?), that’s what friends are for-or-or-or…”

Except then the same car has the nerve to pull up beside me at this here red light WHILE THE SONG IS STILL PLAYING, and right at the best part, too, the second verse when the instrumental starts it out and then I know exactly where to jump in with “well you came and opened me, and now there’s so much more I see…” (harmony here)… “and so by the way I thank you…whoh-oh-whoh-oh…”

Except the driver is now neck and neck with me, and he probably saw me bobbing my head back and forth before and suspected I might be one of those weirdos who sings along to my car radio, and now he’s trying to catch me in the act so he can go home and make fun of me to his family.  (“You should see this weirdo I saw tonight.  She was actually singing along with her car radio.”) 

So I’m forced to sing without moving my mouth, or pretend I’m chewing gum, which is not nearly as enjoyable as the fun I was having before he so rudely interrupted my performance.  I inch my car up a bit so he can only see the back of my head, but he inches up, too, refusing to let me off the hook.  And by now the song’s damn near over, and I’m about to miss the…

Green light!  I put pedal to the metal and speed through the intersection, leaving the gawker in the dust, and I’m…

…alone again with my song, just in time for the grand finale: “count on me for…count on me for…count on me for…(overlapping voices and I can pull off each and every one)…that’s what friends are for-or-or-or.  Doo-doo-doo….”

Whew.  My secret’s still safe.

1. Clip hair off face into random ponytail.  Admire sassy self and wonder why ponytails never look this adorable when make an effort.
2. Apply Crest White Strips and wait for them to dissolve while doing poses from yoga cards and drinking hot cocoa with Hershey’s Syrup, the light version.
3. Brush teeth with extra-foamy stuff.
4. Floss those puppies, too.
5. Swish multi-purpose Listerine (Prevent cavities! Whiten teeth! Freshen breath! Attract multiple boyfriends!) for 60 seconds like in the commercials.  (Yee-ouch!  More like 10.  SPIT!)
6. Change into “Life Is Good” T-shirt and Old Navy bottoms with daisy print.
7. Remove contacts; blindly place them in jar of fizzy stuff.
8. Squint into mirror; pluck and tweeze random hairs.
9. Apply double dose of facial-hair bleach.
10. Yee-ouch!
11. Remove make-up with make-up removal wipe with special moisturizers.
12. Wash face with gritty stuff to slough away dead skin cells.
13. Apply toner on face to acid-burn dead skin cells.
14. Take a jack-hammer to face to hammer away dead skin cells.
15. Apply facial-pigment lightener.
16. Apply facial moisturizer to counteract drying effects of facial-pigment lightener.
17. Apply eye-lifting cream above eyes and eye-depuffing cream beneath eyes.
18. Apply pimple cream to red spot on nose that could be emerging pimple.  (Egads!)
19. Buff off loose lip-skin flakes with warm washcloth.
20. Slather on sugar-infused lip conditioner; wipe off with tissue.
21. Slather on lip balm.
22. Slather body lotion all over body.
23. Slather hand lotion all over hands. 
24. Slather more creamy stuff wherever it makes sense just for good measure.
25. Remove hair clip.  Watch hair clump around face in manner that in no way resembles the movies.
26. Place glasses on face.  Note through cloudy view that they need cleaning. 
27. Clean glasses. 
28. Place glasses back on face.
29. Potty break.
30. Wash hands.
31. Reapply lotion to hands.
32. Set house alarm just in case.
33. Check BlackBerry for messages from multiple boyfriends.  Find none.  Place BlackBerry and flashlight beside bed just in case.
34. Set alarm clock for 6 a.m.  Think better of it and set alarm clock for 6:45 a.m.
35. Turn off lamp.

And this is what we women do just to get ready…

for BED!

Attention, ladies, especially members of the Green Hills YMCA:

You know that new cardio machine at the gym, the one where you can make like you’re in-line skating, where you dart your booty out to one side and then the other? I know you think you look really sporty as you dart away on this thing, but you can’t see you from behind. Well, I saw you at the gym this weekend, and it nearly knocked me to the floor.

Because your booty, your “ass”et, your bum, your heiny, the one that looks so fine in a pair of Lucky jeans? It doesn’t look so good on that machine. In fact, it looks downright scary darting at onlookers that way, especially in those skin-tight black leggings we’re all wearing this time of year. Like those carnival mirrors that turn your image into a grotesque clown, this machine takes your sassy J-Lo-esque behind and enlarges it tenfold. I’m telling you, this machine is to your booty what horizontal stripes are to your hips. All I’m saying is, from one girlfriend to another, if you dare to venture onto this atrocity, TIE A SWEATSHIRT AROUND YOUR WAIST.

You’re welcome. I’ve got your back.

Huff…puff…water!…need…water!…run…jog…dying…sprint…huff…puff…sweat…may vomit…

Look down at fitness machine on which running, see that it reads:

“Discontinue use of machine if dizzy, faint or exhausted.”

* * *

The gym.  The perfect setting to meet potential mates.  I mean, the place exudes physicality and sex and…

…entire shirts dripping with sweat (how is that possible?) and fatty bouncing body parts and caveman-like grunts and some sour smell that appears to be the results of everyone’s collective effort.

Ew.

Anyway, maybe I’ll just get fit. 

* * *

Mental note: Avoid the gym on the first Saturday after New Year’s.  Do you REALLY need to hog the whole mat for your yoga poses? 

* * *

No, not me, I’m not listening to Air Supply on my iPod.

* * *

Overheard while hoisting eight-pounders over my head: “Dude, what are you pressing, 250?”

* * *

How is it that yesterday, when I had the same exact body but lounged around dipping chips into sour cream, my body was repugnant and jiggly, when today, while I’m lifting and running and stretching it all over the place, it suddenly looks fit and buff?  I like how that works.  Feel good, look good.  Maybe I’ll try this again sometime.