French Coffee Cake Can Kill

I missed my gym day.  I had to take care of a few things early in the morning, so instead of running on the treadmill, I ran to Costco. Also sacrificed for the mandatory errands was breakfast,which on any other day would not have bothered me, but Costco was baking French coffee cake  and my resistance was low.  The thing about French coffee cake is that it does not just sit there looking innocent; it beckons. I am not kidding; I heard it call to me in a loud voice which incidentally had a French accent, “Donna, mon cheri, come here. I am warm and delicious. Isn’t it time you gave me a try?”

How could I just walk away? So, I took the cake home and indulged in a piece – okay, half the cake, but remember, I didn’t have breakfast.  As I was scarfing down the last bite of my cake, I couldn’t help feel guilty that I had not worked out that morning, and I decided that a little exercise might be a good thing  because as we all know from the various exercise equipment  infomercials on TV, a woman over 40, might as well fill her closet with maternity clothes because unless she exercises two hours per day, she has no prayer of losing weight– let alone maintaining weight, and maternity clothes will be the only clothes that will eventually fit. According to the fitness experts, this is how the universe works. I would like to see the fitness experts put on a rocket ship and transported to some far away planet where skinny humans are considered appetizers for their corpulent leaders.  Anyway, in lieu of the gym and now feeling guilt to exercise, I turned on the TV and switched to the  On Demand channel and selected one of the exercise programs, “Dancing for Cardio and Fat Burning”.

“Hmm,”  I thought. “I like to dance. I will try this out.”

The first part of the routine demonstrated by the female health guru and the three dancers who stood behind her as support in the TV show  seemed harmless enough: a little marching in place, a little sliding side to side – not bad at all.  Then the exercise leader screamed for me to raise my hands above my head, clap and swing down my arms as the bottom half of my body went into a lunge.  “Okay,” I thought, “a little more complicated but I can manage.”

I pushed my coffee table to the back of the room so I had the space to do the dance moves. Just as I got back to the TV, the tempo of the music changed and the guru and her guruettes started jumping around as if they were on a trampoline.  I was confused. They called it building attitude; I called it an accident waiting to happen. But I kept going: march, slide, clap, spin, lunge, clap again, lunge to the other side, slide and march.  Then the tempo picked up again!  I got to the second round of lunges and spins and my one foot tripped up my other foot and down I went. Luckily one of my ankles broke my fall.  After an ice pack, three Advils and me screeching out a lot of the “F” word, my ankle seemed to throb a bit less.

To think I almost died or at least broke an ankle all because I missed my workout routine and succumbed to the temptation of  French coffee cake from Costco. I am not sure what is the best action here: Should I should sue cable TV or Costco for my injury or should I be more bold and attack France for being so reckless with their baked goods?