This Christmas, I received a video that has been circulating the Internet entitled "Beware the Doghouse." Distributed by JC Penney, it is a four-plus minute advertisement promoting the department store's jewelry department.
The ad begins with a well-intentioned yet oblivious husband who gives his wife a vacuum cleaner for their anniversary. The wife sends him to the "Doghouse" where he encounters other husbands who have met a similar fate. One unfortunate confesses that he told his wife that her "mom looked hot in a bathing suit." Another presented his wife with an Abcisizer on Christmas Day, telling her, "Thought you'd want to tighten up that jelly belly!"
In the Doghouse, the men have to eat quiche and drink Chai lattes every night while awaiting their turn in front of a female review board. The clip closes with a photograph of the only woman who ever accepted her husband back. A close-up reveals a diamond necklace around her neck, apparently the husband's ticket out of the confinement. "Stay out of the Doghouse this holiday," the caption reads.
I laughed and laughed when watching this video for the first time . . . that is, until it became a reality.
On Christmas Day, my husband presented me with a Nintendo Wii Fit, a video game exercise program. This in itself was not enough to land him in the Doghouse. He knows I like to work out, and he has forever been trying to find Nintendo games for me, probably in order to alleviate the guilt that comes from spending many hours in front of the T.V. playing "Super Mario Galaxy" and "The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess."
I was in no way offended by the implication that a gift such as a Wii Fit may connote - that I was in need of exercise.
So we set up the Wii Fit, eager to try it out. My enthusiasm didn't even wane when I stepped on the little white balance board and heard an electronic voice say, "Ooohhh," like an elephant had just climbed on board. But when the Wii calculated my BMI and my Mii character, an avatar-like creature with bobbed brown hair and freckles, grew shorter and chubbier before my eyes, Dan's time out of the Doghouse became dubious at best.
I should also add that when Dan stepped on the Wii board, the electronic voice said, "Great!" and when it calculated his BMI, his Mii character became taller and skinnier. When my Mii stands next to his Mii on the screen, my Mii looks like a beach ball.
The balance board then took me through various activities to calculate my Wii Fit Age. With every activity, the board ridiculed me.
"Walking's not your strong suit," it said. "Do you find yourself tripping when you walk?"
Dan snickered a bit from his perch on the living room couch and responded, "Yes, she does."
"The Agility test is not your strong suit," the balance board said. "Do you find your body isn't responding the way you want?"
Then there was a drum roll while my chubby Mii stood in a yellow spotlight, and the board presented me with my Wii Fit Age.
"40!" the screen read as my Mii bent over and rubbed her back. "That's a difference of +9 years. Your body's a lot weaker than it should be!"
"Don't worry," Dan said hastily. "You just have to get used to the games. I'm sure I won't do much better."
And to prove his point, he too took the Wii Fit Body Test.
"26!" the screen read as Dan's Mii jumped up and down with childlike agility. "That's a difference of -5 years . . . "
I sank onto the sofa and burst into tears.
"Don't cry," Dan hopped off the board and hurried over to me. "Oh no, don't cry. This was supposed to be fun for you! You'll get better at it, I promise."
He paused for a moment.
"I'm in the Doghouse, aren't I?"
Things have calmed down a bit since my first experience with my Christmas gift. I made a conscience decision not to allow the Wii Fit Balance Board determine my self-worth. I've learned to ignore comments made by the Wii such as, "The Steadiness Test isn't your strong suit. Do your find yourself controlling your movements with your eyes?" or "Too busy to work out, eh, Becky?"
Dan managed to stay out of the Doghouse this Christmas, although he occasionally has to be reminded of his precarious position.
"What? 28!" He exclaimed yesterday as his tall, skinny Mii youthfully bounced across the screen. "Last time, my Wii Fit age was 26!"
Then he glanced at me. I raised an eyebrow. He turned his gaze back to the T.V.
"Nevermind," he mumbled.
