Gym Catastrophe

Thanks to my cats, I can never go back to L.A. Fitness. I'd be too embarrassed.

My wife Bonnie and I have two cats, one that's black from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail, and one that is covered with light and dark brown stripes from her cheeks to her back legs.

Our son Daniel recently got his first job and moved into his own apartment. Bonnie and I were talking about it while sitting side by side on two stationary bikes at the health club. There were other people on other bikes, some with ear buds, others without, some looking around, others focused on their clock and calorie counts. We had to speak pretty loudly in order to hear each other over the sounds of moving parts on all the exercise machines and the horrible piped-in music

"So," I joked, while continuing to peddle, "what kind of tenants should we look for to rent Dan's old room."   

"All I ever wanted," Bonnie joked in return, just as all the moving parts seemed to stop moving and the music took a break, "was one black tenant and one striped tenant."