As we perused the store, at this point more interested in finding the exit than continue to be disappointed by this “store,” it occurred to me that we were in the workout section and I had been internally entertaining the idea of getting us a workout ball for the house. Now, I know what you’re thinking. “What self respecting man buys an exercise ball?” Well, this guy does. And you might want to just move on if that’s too much for you to handle. It gets better.

Doing my usual cheapskate price comparisons I see that the Reebok brand ball is $30 while the cheaper Embark brand is only $9. Not a tough decision for what is essentially a big plastic inflatable pool toy, but one that was about to get even easier. Being that I’m a man of the New Millenium, I’m an avid watcher of Project Runway and now its companion show Models of the Runway. Say what you want, but most of those crazy, eccentric designers have more talent in their tiny, calloused pinky finger than pretty much every other reality show contestant combined. Oh, and there are half naked models. So there’s that.

Will we buy the ball? Why am I talking about Lifetime shows? Is this question rhetorical?

For the exciting conclusion, click here.

So, there I am about to be the frugal bastard I am, when the misses says, “Isn’t that that model from Models of the Runway?” Why yes, yes it is her! Now, this is obviously a sign. And I being married to an ardent astrologist, I’ve heard about these “signs” before. I think they mean something. Maybe something about stars and water or dirt… I’m still not entirely sure, but I’m learning.

But here we are with one of the models, Monique Darton, who is competing on the show, already appearing on a box of a reasonably priced medium fitness ball at Target. Does this have any ramifications on the show? Does she win? Did she do this ad before the show because she needed the money, always dreaming of one day shilling for the fine folks at Reebok instead? Am I wearing pants? All of these, valid concerns.

This being a sign and all, I swoop up said box with ball and head to the exit, excited to spend an hour inflating it, 10 minutes deciding I’m not limber enough to use it without minor injury and 20 minutes writing this post about the whole incredible ordeal.

There isn’t an exciting conclusion to this story, not that there was really any exciting parts so far, but I just wanted to do a nice pop culture post like all the rest of the blogosphere does every day.

I guess the moral of the story is: Marriage Takes Balls. All kinds of them. Brass ones for asking her folks for permission.. Big ones to ask her to marry you.. Productive ones if you want to make smaller versions of yourself.. And sometimes you need a plastic one to exercise with.

So remember, kiddies, keep your ass on the ball and keep reaching for the stars, just like Monique.

As Always, Mahalo,

Lou