I have a pair of spandex biker shorts in my closet. The two times I’ve attempted to wear them, I got them up as far as my thighs before I started to hear the desperate threads groaning under the strain. I have to conclude that there is not enough spandex in the world to cover my butt.

At the time I bought them, there was a cute young thing on TV stepping, and stretching, and encouraging me to do the same. My focus was naturally on Denise’s leotard. Every day she wore a new outfit, even though she never broke a sweat, and I suspect that she never leaked any bodily fluids when she kicked. I naturally thought that if I bought the outfit, I would exercise every day. That was two years and twenty pounds ago.

As you might suspect, I haven’t bounced, or flounced, or kicked in the interim. If there’s an exercise that involves crossing and uncrossing your legs while working jigsaw puzzles on the computer, I’ve been in training for some time.

I’m getting a head start on the post-holiday regrets. This involves contemplating dieting and exercise. I’m taking stock of my current activities to see if I can possibly claim calories burned in a normal day. The weekly fooling around involves little activity on my part, unless you consider avoiding the wet spot as exercise.

That leaves me with crushing soda cans for recycling, trudging the ice cream and novelties aisle of the local super-mart, and digging peanut butter out of the jar (extra crunchy). The obvious conclusion is that exercise is fattening. I wish I’d known that when I bought the little leotard.

Of course, I could join a gym, where the only refreshment to be found is a juice bar. The last thing I want after one of their instruments of torture is a carrot and broccoli frappe. There’s no amount of whipped cream and cherries on top that will make that go down easier than chewing on a tire (which is, by the way, the main ingredient in protein bars).

I guess I’ll just have to bounce around with Denise, where nobody can see my stretched out leotard, and where my refrigerator has never seen broccoli juice. Personally, I’d rather be avoiding the wet spot.