This is one lesson I learned this weekend while not reading Madame Bovary. Oh sure, there are stair climbers that can look deceptively like elliptical machines, and you may think that a machine looking like an elliptical machine will perform similarly, and you will be able to handle a workout on said machine of a similar duration.
And then you get on the machine, and you realize that even though it may resemble your friendly workout machine it is in actuality its sick, sadistic cousin, who hates people in general, and you with a frightening specificity. 10 minutes later you’re openly weeping from pain in the all too public workout room of a St. Louis Hampton Inn, and you are forced to pathetically hobble back to your room while between sobs you mutter things like “I should stretched my hammy” or “Boy, I feel that burn!” to sound like you are knowledgeable about such things.
I know the above has seemingly nothing to do with anything remotely tied to Madame B., but if it were not for my ill-planned adventure in fitness I would never have been forced to lie on my bed in the fetal position and watch Big Mamma’s House 2 and have something of a revelation into my understanding of the character of Emma Bovary.
I don’t know if it was when Martin Lawrence proclaims “Nobody messes with one of Big Mamma’s babies.” when he prematurely leaves a stakeout to don his Big Mamma body suit, and go to rescue of one of the children he’s caring for in his undercover duties or when Big Mamma proclaims “I got a blade in my girdle!” when she foils a kidnapping plot, that I realized Emma Bovary might have been a very different character had she had a Big Mamma in her life.
It gives one pause to think, doesn’t it?
By this time it has to be blatantly obvious that I have not read a whole lot since I last posted. This post may have little or no connection to your last post, I’ll be honest I stopped reading after I saw you had finished the book. I will reply to that in greater detail when I make it through the last 35 pages.
Until then, Twinner.
Justin
