“Been up for hours,” The Big Guy said. “I think they’re on a three-mile run right now.”

“Really?”

“Sure. And I’m on my way out to buy a family membership at Gold’s Gym.”

Oh, they were in bed. What was I thinking? It was only noon.

Exercise isn’t a big priority for the guys, ranking just above changing bed linens. But it’s not as if they don’t have a role model. In some circles, the Contessa is revered for her fitness regime.

Fitness in a Haute Flash begins with Contessa carbo-loading on chocolate-glazed crullers and boosting her energy level by guzzling a super-sized mocha latte frappucchino. Establishing a calm mental state is crucial so she pops Yoga for Wimps into the DVD player and herself back into bed. After 20 minutes meditating, Contessa’s workout turns hard-core, starting with five-load laundry lunges.

She steps it up a notch with low-impact “pull-the-crud-out-from-under-Cat’s-bed” squats and escalates to SportsCenter high-intensity jumping jacks. That’s when she stands in between the TV and The Big Guy, hops up and down, and huffs, “Let’s talk. How was your day? Do you think I’m getting fat?” The workout ends when Chris Berman hollers “back, back, back, back…” and The Big Guy yells “snack, snack, snack, snack…”

When it comes to exercise, Contessa bows down before her friend Zinfa Delle, the queen of middle-age fitness. Zinfa swims laps and works out at the gym, jogs, rides her bike and is trim, toned and tanned. The only thing we have in common is she has a wine cellar and I pretend to have one in my linen closet.

“Contessa, I just took a bunch of tests with a trainer,” she said over a Big Mac and french fries. “They’re seeing what my body age is compared to my chronological age.”

Warning Will Robinson, warning. Nothing good could possibly come from this.

First they shot laser beams in her arms that traveled to her brain. How far the beams reached depended on how much fat got in the way. The trainer then tested flexibility and strength, areas of little concern to Zinfa. Her youth was spent in gymnastics and cheerleading, and she now works out with weights.

“Zinfa, I don’t think those six-ounce coffee cup curls make much of a difference.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Zinfa said. “How else do you think my family survives me not biting off their heads?”

“True, but you should look into 12-ounce happy hour curls for real results.”

“You should look into being tested.”

The personal trainer might have difficulty evaluating the Contessa. If he didn’t give up after his fat-measuring laser beam disintegrated tunneling through her upper-arms, he’d surely throw in the towel after the flexibility testing. Contessa’s idea of flexibility is ordering Chinese take-out when she gets a busy signal at Domino’s.

A couple days later Zinfa and I met for lunch. She pulled out an apple, ordered a side-salad with no dressing, and licked the outside of my milkshake.

“Can you believe it? My body age matches my real age.” You would’ve thought someone had told her Barry Manilow was making a comeback. Sure beats hearing, “Wow, maybe you should give “Guinness World Book of Records” a call. They think the oldest person alive is 114.”

There was a silver lining. The trainer offered to place Zinfa on a program that could shave up to 11 years off her body age. For a small fee. And several pounds of flesh.

Hmm, roll back Contessa’s age by 11 years—the year Cat was born. Just what I need, 30 extra pounds, sleep deprivation and ravaging mood swings. Actually, I think I got that body back a couple years ago.

Danielle Schaaf is the author of “Don’t Chew Jesus!” and can be contacted at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com.