A Truth Universally Reviled

Excuse the formality of tonight's title. I finished reading Emma last night and the annoying circumlocutions of the 19th century are fixed in my brain until (insert your own corny Victorian weather reference here).

Here are the truths which I have previously reviled but am accepting, however tentatively, these days:

1. Once you have two babies, it does not matter how much weight you lose or how cute you once were, your body changes shape, occasionally in undesirable ways.
2. The only way to return a pregnancy-deformed body to a shadow of its prior cuteness is to exercise (NOTE: This is an as-yet untested maxim).
3. Exercise actually delivers on the other promises I have so ruefully ignored and rebuffed lo these 33 years.

So annoying. I joined the Y again though and went this morning. The Oakland Y is the world's greatest place to work out, because, in addition to the benefits of exercise that accrue from 25 minutes on an elliptical machine (if any; see 2 above), the other clientele cannot possibly make you feel bad. The blind, the halt and the lame. Is that the expression? As someone funnier than me once said, Everyone at the Oakland Y is there on doctor's orders. This has a twofold effect: (a) you look great and perfect by comparison and (b) you realize that if they can haul their medical scooters up the front steps, you can shut up and sweat.

Other truths, less universally reviled:

The White House is a warren of G-A-Y-ness. Yeah, you knew that. But if there's one thing to make it achingly clear, its a white tie dinner honoring the Queen. Have you seen the guest list? Both Josh Bolton and Stephen Hadley brought their moms, dude.

By the way, young Barbara Bush attended with Jay Blount. I don't know if she's seriously involved with this guy, but here he is rocking such a DeGrassi Jr. High look, it makes me think she brought him to honor the place in the British Commonwealth held by our neighbors to the North.*

Maybe the "gay" assessment of our national security advisor is a little half-cocked (har har). Maybe his wife is too down-to-earth for monarchy. If so, godspeed to her. Mrs. Hadley was all like, "take your mother, she'll love that crap."

*Here's how lame Canadians are: in voting on the Worst Canadian, the leading candidate may be a hockey team owner. Britain chose Jack the Ripper as the Worst Brit. Although maybe I shouldn't slag Canada for that. There are "certain quarters" where A-Rod would probably win Worst American.