Like Sergeant Onatop of James Bond fame, I once was capable of breaking a man’s neck with my thighs.
That is to say, if I’d had the proper KGB villainess training. But after years of writing, my thighs are no longer such killer specimens, which is why today I lit them on fire.
You’ve heard that joke, the one printed on the funny cocktail napkins, right? “I tried to take up jogging but it kept setting my pantyhose on fire . . .”
Well, I set out to accomplish just that. Not with pantyhose, but with athletic Capri-thingies. I duct-taped the inside of a matchbook to one thigh and a match to the other, and climbed onto the treadmill with my i-pod and a lot of scientific curiosity.
Ella Fitzgerald didn’t cut it, and neither did David Byrne, though to be fair he did strike a couple of sparks. It was the Red Hot Chili Peppers who succeeded in setting my thighs on fire! Yup: Picture a huge conflagration, third degree burns, a screaming fire-truck with hot men and their long hoses . . .
An ambulance took the corner on two wheels, more hot men jumped out, the neighbors came running in their ratty bathrobes, my husband eagerly dragged out the life insurance policy on me–
Wait, you’re not actually believing this, are you?
Because I write fiction for a living. I’m here Telling Lies for Fun and Profit (to borrow a great title of Lawrence Block’s) though I can’t lie about not yet seeing much profit.
And this morning, I’m telling lies for my blog. I’m being what’s known in the biz as ‘an unreliable narrator.’
I do hope you enjoyed these miserable untruths—I certainly did. After all, I’ve gotta think about something while on the treadmill, since staring down at my thighs is way too depressing!
Happy Weekend, KK