That would be the end of the similarity.
There is nothing I do every day that lasts five miles, if you don't count running back and forth to the refrigerator.
Nevertheless Franca and I have become bicycling buddies, which means we meet at a parking lot, lather up with sunscreen, hop onto our bikes, and ride side-by-side on the trail, yapping the whole time.
I consider this exercise, and as you can imagine, my tongue is in incredible shape.
Anyway, this particular trail is paved the whole route, and it leaves from the Wegmans, which makes it the perfect trail for a middle-aged women, because after the ride we get to have lunch, food-shop, or have lunch while we food-shop, which we have actually done.
In any event, Franca and I were riding our bicycles along the trail, and we were almost six miles out when I got a flat tire. Actually, it took me a few minutes to notice because I was working out my tongue.
This presented a real problem, because neither of us knew what to do next, and we would have to walk all the way back to Wegmans, which would take about 85 hours and be no fun at all.
We had barely pulled over to the side of the trail and started whining to each other when a man who was riding his bike in the opposite direction stopped and asked us if we wanted help.
This is where you find out that even though I'm a feminist, I'm a bad feminist.
Because I not only wanted help, I wanted to be rescued.
I wanted somebody to make it all better, so I didn't have to figure it out myself, even if I could.
I wanted a white knight, and for once in my life, there he was. He even had a white helmet on and his bicycle was white, too. Also his shirt, and his coat of armor.
So I answered, "Yes, please help us, kind sir and liege lord." Or words to that effect.
He got off his bike, leaned it against a tree, and strode over, and as he got closer, I knew I couldn't look at Franca or I would burst out laughing because we were both thinking the same thing - that this was easily the best-looking man on the planet.
OK, at least it was the best-looking man I've seen in a long time, if you don't count Bradley Cooper.
And I can't tell you the last time Bradley Cooper fixed my flat.
No joke, this guy had gorgeous blue eyes, beautifully chiseled cheekbones, and a confident, dazzling smile. Not only that, he was 6 feet 5 inches of pure muscle, his biceps rippling under a tight cycling jersey that was unzipped to reveal the perfect amount of chest hair.
I know we ladies have varying opinions about chest hair, and I don't impose my view on you. You just fill in the blank about what is the perfect amount for you, because I'm telling you right now, no matter what you think about chest hair, this man would have changed your mind.
As for the rest of his body, I am not going to tell you what he looked like in spandex bicycle shorts, because you're not old enough and this is a family newspaper.
Just use your imagination.
If you read me, you know what to do.
All I can say is he is the reason God made spandex.
And when he came over and took my flabby tire in his strong and manly hand, I spotted his wedding ring and blurted out, "Of course you're married."
"What?" He looked up, slightly puzzled.
Franca burst into laughter. "She's just kidding. She likes to joke around."
"Not all the time," I tell her, and we both laughed like idiots.
I'm not sure what happened next, and Franca couldn't tell you either, because we were both woozy from the fumes off his testosterone, but he changed the bike tire in three minutes, explaining to us what he was doing, as if we could concentrate on anything he was saying.
And he even gave me an inner tube, which I will treasure forever.
Or at least until I get my next flat tire, as soon as possible.
Look for Lisa and Francesca's newest collection of humor essays in "Have a Nice Guilt Trip," in stores now. Also, look for Lisa's latest novel, "Keep Quiet."