Whacka Whiffle

Written By: Donna Rhodes | Issue: Winter 2024

It’s dawn. I’m shoe-horning myself into spandex for an early walk.

“What’s with these squeezy-pants?” I ask my cat, Tiggs – like she knew. “They shrink every time I put them in the dryer.”

Tiggs stares at me. She cocks her head as if to say, “You’re kidding, right?”

“Don’t look at me that way,” I say. “Dryers shrink stuff all the time”

She yawns, disinterested, then meows, “Fahgittabout your pants,” she says. “I’ve had an agonizing 17 minutes since last I ate. I’m feeling the icy fingers of starvation.”Tiggs and I are pathetic. We can’t finish breakfast without planning lunch.

“That’s it. It’s time for New Year’s Resolutions,” I grumble, “and I’m launching an innovative walking routine – one with body shrinkage, not pants shrinkage. I shall call it Whacka Whiffle.”

Tiggs yawns again.

My weight-loss plan will include punting a whiffle ball along my walk. Well, not so much punting, as clobbering – a whiffle workout.

Whiffles, BTW, are those plastic balls that little kids learn to smack with a featherweight bat, so they won’t hospitalize their siblings.

I showed the whiffles to Tiggs. She gave it a courtesy-sniff and went back to preening.

“Watch this, “I said. I took a whiffle out, walked it to the end of the drive, and kicked it down the street. It made a cool, clickety sound as it bounced across the asphalt, skittering bumpity-bump. It caromed off the gutter and slowly spin-wobbled a few feet further, creeping to a stop in a concrete crack.

“Wow! I’m doing that again!” I said. Tiggs distanced herself to her preening-perch.

Some folks like to fool with fidgets. Some like to preen themselves. Personally, a satisfying whiffle-bash is much more satiating, burns more calories, improves foot-balance, and promotes strategy-planning …. like dodging cars.

But there’s another challenge. Roads are engineered to drain water. Street surfaces are rounded every which way. They are gravity-designed to move rain and rolly-stuff, like whiffle balls, smacked-down into sewers. In golf, you score when you putt the ball into the hole. When the whiffle goes down the hole, game over, dude.

Want to join me in whiffle-whacking? Ask your doctor, your lawyer, your pastor, your spouse, your neighbors, your pharmacist, and your feet (but not your cat) if it’s a good idea for you.

So far I’ve lost two balls and nary a pound. Heck! It’s only been two days, but I’m having fun.

Tiggs, on the other hand, is staring at her empty bowl, screeching the Howl-le-mew-ya Chorus.

Me? I just wanna be featured in a Whacks Museum – wearing spandex!

Art by Norma Jean Zahner