Twiddling your thumbs is aerobic exercise, isn't it?
By Sheldon Yoder

While home for Christmas, I took the time to ponder exactly what it is that makes us who we are. Given the hectic pace of my holiday--what with the nonstop cycle of sleeping, eating, socializing and sleeping--you may wonder where I found the time to do this. Actually, it was right after baking my third batch of gooey peanut-butter bars (yes, I did become somewhat domestic over the break, but, to my relief, it has not become a permanent tendency) and reading the latest Stephen Hawkins book. (If it is the most readable book written on the formation of the universe, then how come I just finished 200 pages but have yet to discover why the checkout line I get into at Wal-Mart is always the slowest?)

In any case, my thoughtful reverie was interrupted by the oven buzzer letting me know that the fourth batch of gooey, peanut-butter bars was done. I eyed the bars with suspicion since these were brown, but my mom was quick to assure me that black--while a legitimate color on cars and assorted animals--was not the desired color of any baked good.

"What about brownies?" I queried her using my best ironic tone of voice.

"Brownies are brown," she answered with finality.

"Ha," I exulted, "Not if you're using dark chocolate."

My mom didn't answer. I patted myself on the back, taking pride in the fact that I had beaten her at her own game. Unfortunately, that little bit of witty repartee had exhausted the better part of my faculties, so the initial question I had of my origins was dropped in favor of staring at the back of my eyelids.

"What are you doing over there, dough boy?" questioned Mom.

I cracked my eyes and stared at my stomach. It was then I realized that the term "dough boy" was not used in reference to my physical condition but my substantial culinary talents. Nevertheless, I felt obliged to let her know that I would eventually work off the accumulated holiday calories.

"I remember when your dad said something similar to that," Mom stated and continued mumbling something about the big and tall section and hugging a redwood and other incomprehensible phrases and whatnot. By her comments, I determined that she was not referencing dad's height, though he does rise to a commanding 5'9", but his girth. Mom's pretty witty, but she had nothing to say to my next comment.

"Yeah, well, that was before aerobic points were invented. You don't think I'm going to college for nothing, do you?" Mom remained silent, no doubt stinging from another disastrous verbal sparring match.

Mom busied herself in the kitchen, and I returned to busying myself with sitting, catatonic, on the leather-bound, plush La-Z-Boy chair. Many assume--erroneously--that this activity is the height of laziness. It is on a La-Z-Boy that some of the world's greatest ideas have been thought up, or would have, had the chairs been around in the time of Socrates, St. Augustine, Eli Whitney and Jebediah Yoder (the latter, a particularly dashing ancestor of mine invented water--pardon me--distilled water, or so I've been told by my grandfather, who, regardless of what naysayers may say, does not think the color pink is a feminist invention designed to slowly eradicate all that is good in the male world.)

While on the La-Z-Boy I heard the gentle whirr of the sewing machine, which my sister was hovering over intently. I briefly considered asking her for lessons on the machine, but thought that might put me over my monthly domestic quota. I wondered if it wouldn't hurt to know how to piece trousers or cardigans out of animal hide if Saddam carries out his dastardly plan to destroy, in a terrifying nuclear holocaust, all clothing on earth except what Wal-Mart stocks, but then remembered that the news media had been wrong about the Y2K bug, too.

I stroked my GAP pajama pants for reassurance and wondered if perhaps seven at night was a little too late to still be wearing them. Then it dawned on me that by keeping them on, I would save myself some unnecessary exertion in a few short hours. As the smell of slightly crisp (not burnt, as my mom so thoughtlessly described them) gooey, peanut bars wafted toward me and soft music caressed my ears with ethereal bliss and snow fell in large white clumps outside, making the street look like a whitewashed board stretching to infinity, I couldn't help but wonder if life could get any better. I didn't finish that thought because everything went black as I fell asleep.

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