I’ve buckled on Bakugan, putting on a happy face while playing a game that has zip appeal to me.

I’ve caved on MarioKart, embarrassing myself by crashing into enough virtual walls to consistently finish 12th. It’s become a running joke with the guys and me.

“Oh, let me play! I’m very good at this!”

“No, you’re not. You reek,” they’ll chorus.

I do more than my fair share of other things that I flat don’t want to do. Things I’d never do if I didn’t have kids, from amusement parks to sunning by the pool. I draw the line, though, at the gym.

So the gym, of course, is Big Guy’s new obsession, particularly since he started going there with D’s parents.

“Please, Mommy! Take us there. Take us to the gym,” Big Guy will plead.

Um, no. Not when there’s a perfectly good park, complete with basketball hoops, at the end of the street. Not when there are bike paths that loop from one end of the post to another. And not when the gym reminds me of a lifetime of humiliation.

There was the kid in grade school who drew mock cheers from classmates when she finally was able to convince a volleyball to skim over the net.

There was the teen who would voluntarily run laps rather risk the humiliation of failing at another sport.

There was the young adult who, try as she might, could not make it out of bed early enough to avoid the taunting eyes of the pretty girls. You know the type – their rears could have been on the cover of a “Buns of Steel” video and they slayed the Stairmaster without so much as a drop of sweat to foul their perfect makeup.

“Please, Mommy! Take us there. Take us to the gym.” How do I explain that history to a 6-year-old who appears to have inherited his father’s jock genes?

“You know those days when you run five miles and you feel like you could go another 10?” Dad will ask. No, I’ll say. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

I feel bad about constantly telling them “no,” so I suppose one day I’ll suck it up and go. I’ve never seen the gym in daylight – the only time we were there was for a Halloween haunted house. Maybe there’s an exercise bike. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about how to change gears.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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