The beginning, middle and end. And by end, I mean END.

The beginning of summer, we spent our time sitting and watching this:







The middle of summer, we spent our time sitting and watching this:









And now, can you guess how we're going to spend our time the END of this summer?




(this was that jumping-and-rolling-over-your-teammate exercise, which as far as I'm concerned, they all looked a little like Tuck and Roll from the Bug's Life movie, if you ask me. Kellen is in the red shirt, and I can't decide if he's getting the hang of diving over his friend, or if he's having a seizure.)

I'm not complaining, I'm really not. Kellen is fit and healthy and happy and loves it. And to be completely truthful, I was born and raised in Oklahoma, where football reigns, and there is no better Friday night past-time. It's the sport I love most ... its the one sport where I actually understand all the rules. Quite frankly, I'm GLAD he's finally playing on a team, even if it means we do have to take a break from his beloved soccer. Football feels right ..... it feels like home.

Of course, I'm also fairly certain after all these months of sitting and watching my son play sports, although HE will be in great shape, I will probably acquire a wretched case of permanent chair-butt, and my END will have to be explained on my headstone some day .... as in, "Here lies Big-Butt Kristie Escoe, who needed two spaces in the graveyard just to fit her rear end ..... but by golly, she never missed a game."

Although ... wait. What's that? Do you see?



Do you see the one thing that might get me through the rest of this summer and fall ???? Ahhhhhhhhh, that's why I love my hometown. At least it will be easy to get my DDP fix while he's at practice.

Excuses, excuses

I know I joke and kid around a lot about my weight .... in a sort of, "the best defense is a good offense" kind of way. I'm partly kidding, because I'm healthy and happy and love me a good spoonful of chocolate chip cookie dough, and really, who on this planet besides ME gives a hoot how I look? .... and partly, I've always acknowledged, somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, that possibly, maybe, there is a small, teeny tiny, minute chance I could stand to lose a few pounds, IF I'm being totally honest with myself. The fact that NONE of the clothes in my closet fit me anymore is another tiny clue.

Then, I saw the pictures Blaine took of me on the cruise, in a swimsuit. Photographers everywhere know that the problem with actually BEING the photographer is that you are rarely in the pictures. In my case, specifically, since I am the one who takes the kids to the pool and the lake, I am NEVER in pictures in a swimsuit. Until vacation, when Blaine so gallantly offered to take some photos so I could have photographic proof that I truly did go on vacation with my family.

After seeing those pictures, I think I shall have to burn the evidence. It would be less painful for me to trick my kids into believing I wasn't there, and have them endure years of therapy to reconcile their absentee mother, than to have to print those pictures out and ever look at them again. EVER.

All kidding aside, they were horrifying. According to the bathroom scale, I am at least forty pounds overweight, which in my mental image of myself, translated to "slightly chubby". In photos, well, it translated to something much, MUCH uglier than that. And really, it was the painful prompt I needed to do something about my weight.

So the week we returned from vacation, I started a serious, SERIOUS, no-procrastinating, no excuses, make like Nike and just DO IT NOW, diet and exercise program.

Which lasted for approximately twelve hours.

Because I had so much laundry to do, and I was really, really tired from the drive from Baltimore, and hadn't had a chance to go to the grocery store. So I had to resort to eating whatever was left in the pantry. And the older two kids were at church camp, and then I *still* hadn't gone to the store, so we were eating out quite a bit.

Then you look up and a week's gone by and you've actually (meaning *I've* actually) gained three more pounds. Damn you, brand-new Panera Bread, only ten minutes from my house ::shakes fist at sky::

I vowed THIS week would be it .... THIS is the week I would start. First day of the rest of my life, and all that crap.

Then, in the previous five days, this is the list of excuses I've used not to exercise:

1. Traveling with Blaine.

2. After returning home, tired from traveling with Blaine.

3. It's too early.

4. It's too late.

5. It's too hot.

6. I don't have time to take another shower later today.

7. Sun is too bright and makes my eyes squinty which causes wrinkles. I might be fat, but I don't want to look fat AND old.

8. After exercising one day, I deserve a day off.

9. Legs still hurt from actually exercising one day.

10. Forgot my ipod. Heaven forbid I walk and have to listen to myself THINK for an hour.

11. I have a rash on my ankle.

12. My shoes are squinchy.

13. In a nutshell, I hate it.

So then this morning, driving Kellen to the wellness and strength training/conditioning camp that his school puts on all summer, I saw a man out walking his dog.

Using crutches.

Because he only had ONE LEG.

God, I suck.

That stupid mirror never lies for me, how did that evil queen stepmother get so lucky?

Oh, dear. It was 80-something degrees here yesterday. You *know* you've gained weight when you put on last summer's Capri pants for the first time and not only can you NOT get them fastened, but you can walk around with them completely unzipped and they do not fall down. At all.

Hmmmmm. We leave for our cruise in two months.... I see either a lot of dieting, or a lot of shopping (yes, for larger clothes, but probably NOT for a belt) in my immediate future. I think I shall go have a Milk Dud and ponder this dilemma.

Random

I am in Facebook Hell (stop)

Send help (stop)

Or Oreos, really, would be just as good.

************************************

Speaking of Oreos, I went to the gym again this morning (I know! Twice in one week! Or as a friend asked me this morning, upon seeing me in work-out clothes, has hell frozen over????) There, I ran into another local mom I know. Now, this mom hires herself out as a personal trainer for good reason. She is fit, adorable, has a killer bod, and runs marathons on a regular basis. If she wasn't so stinking nice, I would be annoyed with her. As it is, you can't help but like her (and envy her toned thighs, all at the same time.) Those of you reading this locally know exactly who I'm talking about.

When I walked into the gym she said hello (with a look of surprise and bewilderment in her eyes, I'm sure, at the fact she's never seen hide nor hair of me in the gym) and asked what I was up to. I told her I wasn't sure if I was going to walk around the track, or on the treadmills ..... I walk faster than most of the older people there (but not the pregnant ladies, obviously) and thought it might be easier to just stick to the treadmill instead of passing people and being forced to say, "excuse me, excuse me" over and over for half an hour. Hmmmm, which to do, which to do.

She said, without batting an eye, "Why not do both?"

And I realized ---- THAT is why she is a size zero and I am a pack mule. MY line of thought was wondering which would be less work; HER line of thought was to simply do both.

Something tells me SHE won't be vacationing in Antarctica this summer with me.

Really? A pregnant lady?

I looked at the calendar yesterday and realized that our summer vacation is coming up .... much sooner than I expected. Then I looked in a full-length mirror and realized .... this is not a good thing. My vacations the past two years have involved jackets and hats and gloves, oohing and aahing at beautiful glaciers in the chilly northern Pacific waters off Alaska.

This year, unless I can convince my children that filming a documentary about polar bears and penguins in the Arctic is more fun than snorkeling in St. Thomas, I'm afraid I'm going to be forced to put on a swimsuit.

In public. (shudder)

To that end, I decided today was the day. The day to reclaim my body and whip it into shape with some healthy eating habits and exercise. I would have decided yesterday was the day, but I went to my sisters and she had a bag of those new cheesecake Hershey kisses, have you had those? Yum!!! I ate about thirty. So clearly, *today* would have to be the day.

I went to the gym, checked out a clicker thing, and started walking. Two laps warm up, then into my fast-stride-but-I-only-jog-when-I'm-passing-people-because-heaven-forbid-I-actually-RUN mode. I felt strong; I felt determined; I felt skinny already.

Well, not really because I pass these tall windows all the way around and I can see my reflection and CLEARLY I am not skinny, if I was, would I be at the freaking gym????

But I felt good about myself.

Until a lady speed-walked past me.

She was pregnant, and going faster than me.

Pass the stupid Hershey kisses; I'm calling the tourism board of Antarctica.

**************************************************
PS. My answer to Mind-Bender Monday is ..... it depends. If I'm driving in my car and want to sing along, then I vote SH because he has a better voice and I think musically, they were better with him. But if I'm at a party, drinking trash-can punch (not that I would do that) and playing my air guitar, then defintely DLR ... pretty much anything off 1984.

Forget Jenny Craig, stricter measures are in order. Like wiring my damn jaw shut.

I mentioned yesterday that like 95% of the people on the planet, I started my New Year with the same-old-boring-resolution to live healthier and eat better and exercise more. Blah blah double triple blah. I say boring because it’s the same resolution I make every year, and every year I do great until approximately Jan 8th, when the pressure and stress and abject longing for chocolate push me over the edge to the point of mainlining Hershey Bars. And since I don’t think playing the drums on the Wii Rock Band my kids got for Christmas actually counts as aerobic exercise, I feel safe in the declaration that so far, this year’s resolution is already a big fat failure. Goodbye fat jeans, hello yoga pants from the plus-size section!

Fast forward to this past weekend:

So, it’s great to be living back at home, and finally be “in the know” as far as social events. Social events like the current planning of my high school reunion which will be taking place this summer. Did I mention it’s my TWENTY-FIFTH high school reunion? Holy crap, I’m old and that’s depressing. So I signed up on Facebook and started reconnecting with people and playing the “what have you been doing?” game with everyone, which I am just nostalgic and sappy enough to totally love.

Of course, it plays right into the fantasy we all have, right? Showing up at a reunion looking all hot and foxy (do people actually say “foxy” these days?) --- stunning everyone you haven’t seen in years with your youthful beauty. (Don’t try and deny the fantasy … you KNOW you have it, too.) I’m sure I can accomplish that …. I just need to do something about these wrinkles. And age spots. And gray hair. And twenty thirty forty extra pounds I’m carrying. (Again, what with the resolution that is not working out so well.)

Then I heard from a classmate that I used to date. That I used to date a LOT. That I really, really, really liked …. And, ok, fine. I’ll just say it. At the time, I thought he was the one … the, THE one. And yes, as an adult I can look back and realize what a dope I was at eighteen, but at the time? Broke my heart.

His wife?

Who I actually met fifteen years ago at a reunion and liked very much, but never saw again because we never lived anywhere near one another?

That wife???

I just found out ----- is a freaking aerobics instructor.

Hole. E. Shit.

Perhaps since diets always fail me (or I fail myself, if you want to be persnickety about it) THAT is the incentive I need to stick with the resolution and lose twenty thirty forty pounds in the next five months. Like I want to stand next to her, looking like THIS??? With rubber bands popping willy nilly all over my fat jeans?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some celery to nibble on and some water to guzzle. Then I’ll be scheduling some Botox and Rejuvaderm and highlights and tanning sessions and a face lift and a tummy tuck and …………… oh, hell. Maybe I can just be away that weekend. Doing something vastly more fun. Like cleaning the muck out of sewers or something.

Clearly A Sign

So, the fact that I had to wear my fat jeans today with a rubber band holding the button closed, and then the rubber band snapped and popped me in the stomach, is clearly a sign that I should take my new diet and exercise regimen more seriously.

Or, clearly a sign that I should buy stretchier rubber bands.

I can't believe I'm going to tell you this ....

Yesterday, I was putting on a pair of jeans and thought I should depress myself further by looking at my rear in the mirror. You know the trick, right? You stand with your back to your "big" mirror, then hold a hand-mirror strategically over your shoulder so you can get the full view. Which is an unfortunate thing to do, and every time I do it I think "holy cow, my butt is even bigger than before" (or, as I was told by a professional yesterday, I have the genetic tendency to gain weight in unfortunate places .... um, thanks???)

So anyway, I was doing the whole backwards-mirror-depressing thing when suddenly I noticed a spot on my elbow. Sort of like a bruise, or an indention ... or maybe a deformity. And I (honest to Pete, I so totally did this) laid the mirror down on the bathroom counter and tried to look at my elbow by twisting my arm around. Did you know it is pretty much impossible to actually LOOK at your own elbow? But because I had forgotten that, I (again, no lie) starting turning around in circles, like a dog chasing my tail, trying to see whatever calamity had befallen my poor elbow.

Finally I realized how idiotic I looked, and that it was never going to work, so I grabbed the handmirror, and came to the conclusion that my "deformity" was nothing more than a crease from where I had been leaning my lower arms on the hard plastic armrests of my computer chair.

And after I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn't have elbow-cancer or anything, the thought that honest-to-goodness went through my head was, "I'm so glad nobody saw me do that."

Famous last words, right?

Later in the day I stopped at our local grocery store to pick up .... I don't even remember what. And as I walked from my car to the front doors, I glanced up and noticed my reflection. And as I walked right up to the entrance door, I got a *really* good look at the saddlebags on my thighs.

No lie, I sort of paused right there, a foot from the front door, in shock at how big my thighs are. (That's the part of our bodies we call saddlebags, yes? The poochy-out part of our upper, outer legs .... right?) So without even thinking about it I sort of slapped my upper thigh, and then shook it around a little bit, and said to myself in the reflecting door ... "My gosh, has my metabolism completely stopped??? .... and shook my head in disgust and walked into the store .....

where Kendrie's little friend Matt and his dad were in the check-out line right in front of the door, watching my insane-ness the entire time.

Egads. I'm going to go live in a cave somewhere and quit interacting with humans. A cave where no mirrors or reflective doors are allowed.

Too bad you can't really SHOOT someone with your camera

So, last night's photography class was over lighting, both natural and artificial. The teacher wanted to demonstrate how a fill flash could help with photos taken outside in harsh daylight, and help soften the glare of shadows. So we all grabbed our cameras and schlepped outside the school, ready to buddy-up and practice taking pictures of one another in both shade and backlit conditions.

My partner was a girl in the class that I don't know ... of course, I don't know *any* of the people in the class, so that's not really saying anything. As we headed to a sunny patch of the parking lot to take pictures of one another, she pointed to my stomach and asked when I was due.

Now, I know I've alluded to the fact I've been dieting this summer, and while no one is confusing me for an anorexic or anything, I *have* managed to lose fifteen pounds since school let out. In fact, I was wearing a pair of jeans last night that I haven't been able to squeeze into in quite a while, and at the risk of sounding vain, thought I was looking better than I had in a long time. So for her to not only insinuate that I'm fat enough to be pregnant, but actually ask me out loud "when was I due" was a bit of a blow to my self-esteem, to be sure.

I tilted my head to the side and simply said, "Pardon?" .... at which point she realized her error and began backtracking ... "Um, are you .... I mean, you're not .... are you pregnant?" I simply replied, "No, just fat." And we took our photos without speaking much to one another after that .... the awkward silence punctuated by the clicking of our lenses.

The teacher, upon returning to the classroom, remarked what trouble I seem to have had properly using the fill flash, or was my external flash low on batteries??? as the shadows on my partner's face were very harsh, and not softened at all, and made her look much older than she really is.

Hmmmm. Coincidence? I think not.

Low Blood Sugar

So, school let out two weeks ago. Which only means one thing: summer is here. Which only means one thing: it’s getting hot. Which only means one thing: we are trying our best to stay cool. Which only means one thing: we’re spending lots of time at the pool. Which only means one thing: I have officially entered that time of year hated by most females: The Swimsuit Humiliation Era.

I have a confession to make: I only own two swimsuits, and I have been wearing them since our last summer in Ohio …. 2001. Which means these suits are seven years old. And while I suppose I should just be grateful I can still fit into them, the truth of the matter is that they don’t fit like they should, and it’s NOT because the fabric has shrunk. It’s because the rest of me has grown.

I suppose I could behave like a normal person and spend some time shopping for a new suit at the mall, cursing the swimsuit makers of America, and wondering who the hell decided full-length mirrors and fluorescent lighting in dressing rooms was a good idea. Instead, the beginning of every summer, I go on a desperation-diet in an attempt to drop at least ten (ahem, twenty) pounds so my seven-year-old swimsuits will once again cover my ass.

To that extent, I gave up sugar on Monday. Gave up breads and potatoes and pastas, and am going with a high protein, low-fat diet in an attempt to lose a few pounds quickly. Not a long-term solution, but one that will hopefully show speedy results. I didn’t realize, however, just how much I was missing my sugar until today.

We were at the water park (imagine that) and I was walking back from the concession stand with the kids. Brayden had curly fries, and Kendrie had nachos. Both of which looked delicious. And I had a Diet Coke, for which I was indeed grateful, but which wasn’t exactly curbing my carb cravings.

Then, a little girl walked in front of me, holding the most beautiful, most delicious-looking ice cream cone I’ve ever seen. I could only see the top of the cone --- a ginormous scoop of ice cream, vanilla I presume, covered in that yummy chocolate hard shell that I love so much. It was so luscious looking, so perfectly round, so decadent … for a half second, I honestly considered ripping that cone out of her hand and running. She was pretty short, I bet I could have beat her in a footrace.

I gazed at the chocolate cone, imagining it’s cold, frosty sweetness … imagining the way the hard shell chocolate would crack under my tongue …. Imagining the scrumptious vanilla ice cream underneath … imagining … wait, what? What is that????

Holy shit, that’s not ice cream. That’s a Dora doll, and the chocolate cone is Dora’s big fat plastic brown head.

I better start mainlining Hershey bars before the sugar low causes any more hallucinations, don't you think?

Me. Him.

Me: “You know what stinks? What totally stinks? That I’ve worked out six days out of seven for the past two weeks. I’ve only skipped TWO DAYS. I’ve walked a MINIMUM of a mile and a half each day … most days between two and two and a half. I’m watching what I eat, drinking tons of water, and yet I’ve GAINED one pound since I started!! Where is the justice, I ask you? Where??”

Him: “Well, maybe walking isn’t enough.”

Me: “I know, but I’m doing Pilates twice a week, and I even added nautilus three times a week … why isn’t it working??”

Him: “Oh, there you go. You’re lifting weights. Everyone knows that muscle weighs more than fat. That’s your problem.”

Me: “Oh, please, don’t give me that load of crap. I’m lifting five pound hand weights, the smallest in the gym, and I’ve got the machines set to almost the lightest weight possible because I am such a weenie. And it’s not like I’m taking steroids. Just how much muscle mass could I have possibly added in the past two weeks? Hmmmm??? That’s not it.”

Him: “Well, maybe your body is in shock and hanging onto every pound. You know the older you get, the harder it is to lose weight.”

Me: hateful death-ray vision stare

Him: “OK, maybe I didn’t say that right. No, seriously. What I mean is, I remember reading that when you start exercising, your body goes into this shock mode and hangs on to all the extra weight. Then after a while you’ll reach a peak, and then past that, the pounds will start falling off. Just falling off faster than you can imagine. You just haven’t reached your peak yet.”

Me, slightly hopeful: “Really? Is that true?”

Him, pause: “No. But did it make you feel better even for a second?”

Me: “Shut up and pass me the Chips Ahoy.”

Thank goodness, not that bad.

So, I went to my "new gym" today and walked two miles.

{I'll wait just a moment so that those of you who read that sentence and then fell out of your chairs in shock and amazement can get back up and join us again .... no, really, I'll wait.}

{whistling}

As you might remember, I've not had good luck with exercise programs in the past. To say the least.

The. VERY. Least.

Needless to say, my expectations for today were extremely low today, considering what colossal disasters some of my earlier attempts have been.

Anyway, the indoor track at this church gym is one of those little ones, that takes twelve laps around to make a mile. So I checked in at the desk, and got my little lap-clicker counter thing-y (why yes, that is the technical term .... I happen to know that because I am an exercise-professional) and took off walking.

I was feeling pretty good about myself at first because I lapped two ladies, then I realized that one of them was one of my high school friend's 80 year old mother, so really? Not so much with the feeling proud.

Then two of my new local friends (other school moms) came in and started jogging together, and lapped me pretty consistently, but I couldn't even be jealous because I know they are training to run a 5K and I have to admire their hard work.

But then, this college-age chickie came in and started running. Lapping me, lapping me, lapping me ..... when the track is only 1/12th of a mile, and you are a chubby walker, you get lapped fairly often by the runners. And every time she went by, with her slim, muscular legs, and small waist, and very un-bouncy rear end (much unlike my own, I can assure you) I started hating her a little more and a little more.

I tried telling myself not to feel bad ... she had obviously never had a kid, or had to deal with an old-lady-metabolism like mine .... or had probably never eaten an entire bag of Oreos at once, if we're being honest. But the cold hard truth is, I know plenty of moms my age who are in great shape, so my only real excuse is that I love food much more than I love exercise. On a scale of 1 to 100, it would be food = 100, exercise = a negative number. Some kind of very low negative number that they haven't even invented yet in the math world.

So I just kept walking, and grumbling to myself, and hating her more and more every time she lapped me.

Finally, my little click-y thing showed the magical number 24 which let me know I was done. I was sitting on a bench, sucking air (yes, simply walking two miles left me sweaty and breathless .... and I wasn't power walking either, but more of an ungainly striding motion) when Little Miss Skinny Pants jogged by, looked me right in the face, smiled, and said, "Hi, Kristie!"

Yep, it was my hairdresser. A sweet, friendly, cute young lady who I simply adore. The kind of person everybody just loves because they are so genuinely good-hearted.

And apparently she's athletic, too.

Man, I HATE when I can't even be mad at the skinny people.

Not sure what I’m doing wrong

I went to our church yesterday and joined the gym they have available for church members. The gym that is three blocks from my house. However, rather than walk, I drove my car there because it looked like it might rain. So then I pulled open the big heavy doors when I walked in. And filled out a form to join, which involved moving a pen around quite a bit, and finally, lifted my wallet to open it and pay my membership fee.

Then I had to have my picture taken for my gym ID and I had to step forward towards the camera, then oooops, too far forward, step back a bit, no, a little bit forward again …. I swear it was like a grueling high-impact aerobics class.

Then I got in the elevator and went upstairs to look at the gym equipment and the walking track. Granted, I probably could have taken the stairs, especially since it was only one flight, but in my defense, I did push those elevator buttons really, really emphatically. Which is a good workout for your pointer finger, as everyone knows.

Then I looked at the treadmills. And stationary bikes. And stair steppers. They looked nice, but I was not inclined to get on any of them. And then I talked to a personal trainer for a while. Not about exercise, but just because she was friendly.

Then, I left to come home, and aha! I was right, and it had started raining. So I practically sprinted from the door to my car. Sprinted! to the car. Which was about 30 feet.

Then I got home and I was so exhausted from all that activity that I sat on the sofa. And ate a cookie.

Shockingly, when I got up this morning, I hadn’t lost a single pound.

I’m just not sure what I’m doing wrong.

Another Funny Wedding Ring Story. If Being Called a Fat-Ass is Funny to You. Because Whoo-Boy, it Sure is To Me!

When I got pregnant with Kellen, I gained 60 pounds. (No, that’s not a typo. Six-zero.) I lost fifty of them before getting pregnant with Kendrie. Then gained those fifty back when I was pregnant with her. Why no, I don’t suffer from morning sickness or nausea; how did you guess?

While pregnant with Kellen, my hands got so fat (along with every other cell in my body) that I had to quit wearing my wedding ring. Same thing when I was pregnant with Kendrie. But after she was born, I don’t know if my finger joints had permanently puffed up, or if the stubborn ten …. fifteen …. OK, TWENTY pounds I still had hanging around was making the difference, but I couldn’t get my wedding ring back on my finger, no matter how much hand lotion or spit I used. (That’s a lovely image, isn’t it?)

So I finally caved and went down to have my ring stretched. Or expanded. Or whatever it is they do to make them bigger. And while the lady at the jewelry store was nice, I’ll admit I was self-conscious and a little embarrassed about it. Who wants to make the public confession that they’ve gotten so much fatter, even in the fingers, that their jewelry doesn’t fit?

Then, like being mortified by my fat-ness in front of one employee wasn’t enough, when I went back later to pick the ring up, there was a different girl working. She handed me the ring to try on, and asked me if it fit better. This is the conversation that followed:

Her: Does it feel better?

Me: Yes, actually, much better. I can at least get it past the knuckle now.

Her: Were you having it sized up or sized down?

Me: Oh, sized up. (feeling self-conscious, so doing that stupid self-deprecating thing that I do) I guess that’s what happens when you’ve gotten pregnant twice only eight months apart …. Your fingers get bigger and you need to get bigger rings (embarrassed laughter)

Her: Well, I suppose. But after you have this one, you’ll just have to get it sized back down again.

Have this one? HAVE this one? Did I mention that I had already HAD the baby? Like, THREE MONTHS earlier????

So, needless to say, since I was already at the mall, I called Blaine and told him I was going shopping. For clothes that did a better job of hiding my post-baby tummy. Sadly, it’s been eight years and I’m still searching the racks. (sigh)

More than a job ...

When Blaine and I first met, he was attending the University of Oklahoma and was a cadet in their ROTC program. My dad served four years in the service, but that was before I was born and he never really talked about it, so I was unfamiliar with the military or anything that went along with it. I asked Blaine what made him want to join the Air Force, and he said it's just what he'd always wanted to do. He was one of those obnoxious people who always knew what they wanted to be when they grew up and how to make it happen -- in his case, an Air Force officer. I asked, "If you weren't joining the Air Force, what would you do?" And he replied, "Join the Navy; they'd be my second choice." So I asked the obvious, "The Navy? What for? You hate to get water up your nose. Why not the Army? Or the Marines?"

To which Blaine gave the respectful and considerate reply: "Are you out of your fucking mind? Have you seen how much those guys have to work out, and what kind of physical shape they have to be in? No thanks!!"

Now, that's not to say the Air Force and Navy guys are slackers -- they're not. They have physical fitness requirements and timed runs and weight restrictions, just like all the branches of service. And prior to getting cancer, Blaine was in great shape, working out at least three or four times a week. It's just that, well, he's got a point. Those dudes in the Army and Marines? While I'm sure it's not 100 percent true (surely they have some members on the Fat Boy Plan, as well?) for the most part, those guys are in some serious shape. It's like Blaine explained to me, all military servicemen and women have important jobs, it's just that their jobs (meaning Army and Marines) are often more physically demanding in nature, and they HAVE to be in good shape.

Nowhere has it ever been more obvious to me that there is a difference in the way the Air Force and the Army approach their physical fitness regimes than the many times we have been here at Ft. Gordon. Normally we are entrenched in the Air Force lifestyle but here, we are in a hospital on an Army base, and I can drive nowhere on the base, at any time of the day or night, without witnessing group physical training and exercises of some kind, some place. First thing in the morning, squadrons of men and women are running in formation, shouting along in cadence. Entire platoons jogging around the base with heavy rucksacks on their backs. Today, the base emergency departments were out on a soccer field, doing calisthenics together, the fire trucks and police cars parked around the perimeter of the field. Everywhere I turn I see active duty Army people in work out uniforms .... black shorts and gray t-shirts with ARMY emblazoned across the chest. It's a young, healthy, virile community --- and they make me feel fat and old.

This morning, I had gone into the PX (Post Exchange, which sounds funny to me because we call it a BX for Base Exchange .... whatever) to pick up a few things before heading over to the hospital. I was standing in line, and these two girls walked past. Two young, pretty, active-duty Army girls. Both in their work out gear, with their fresh faces, hair in ponytails, All-American beauty just oozing out of their pores.

I watched them walk past, and felt discouraged. Look at them, with their great figures and youthful energy ... and then look at .... me. Ugh.

I looked at their flat stomachs and thought, "I can't compete with that. I've birthed six babies, for heaven's sake, six LITTLE PEOPLE have taken up temporary residence in my mid-section at one time or another. My stomach will never be that flat again, short of surgical intervention."

Then I looked at their perky breasts and thought, "I'll never have that again. I've nursed babies and had breasts pumps hooked up to me and in between the babies and machines, all the perkiness has been plum taken out of mine. I've got East-West Breasts now --- meaning when I lie on my back, they go east and west."

Then I looked at their legs, tanned and strong and muscular, extending down from their exercise shorts and thought, "My legs will never look like that again. Hell, they didn't look like that when I was young, let alone now, with this cellulite and saddlebags and varicose veins running all down the back."

And I stood there for a minute and thought, "Damn. Damn, getting old sucks. How can I compete against age and gravity and metabolism and pregnancy and childbirth? I have the body of a 40-yr old woman, and its depressing."

But the longer I stood there, the more I got to thinking --- "OK, yeah, so I have the body of a 40-yr old woman ... it's a body that has done some amazing things, like having babies and nurturing them, and I'm still getting around pretty darn good, if I just stop and think about it. I mean, it's not like I need a cane, or have to buy two airplane seats. You know, why am I giving myself grief? Those girls, with their narrow waists and tight butts and flat stomachs ... why should I feel bad that I'm not in as good a shape? I'm probably 20 years older than they are ---- I am NOT going to feel bad about the effects that Mother Nature has had on my body, especially when age and genetics catches up to everyone at some point -- it's totally not my fault!"

Then, had to be honest with myself, and acknowledge I was having this mental conversation while standing in line for Cinnabon. And that the last time I attended an aerobics class, Kendrie was still in diapers.

Hmmmm, maybe age and genetics aren't the only factor.

Wonder if it's too late to join the Army? I hear they've got a kick-ass physical fitness program.

WHY YES, I HAVE. THANKS FOR NOTICING.

Apparently, I was correct when I stated to Blaine that owning an iPod would help me lose weight and get in better shape. My intent was to use it at the gym to listen to music and enjoy my workouts better (of course, by “better” I mean AT ALL.) But I was wrong. You don’t even have to go to the gym to lose weight with your iPod. I have discovered the secret, and am happy to share it with you:

TWENTY EASY STEPS TO LOSING WEIGHT WITH YOUR IPOD

1. Open birthday present containing iPod. Toss and fling wrapping paper and bow around room, exercising wrists. Later, once your children realize there is cake in the other room and leave you stranded and alone, pick pieces of wrapping paper off floor, pretending to touch toes a few times.

2. Pat self on back that husband picked up on your oh-so-cleverly-disguised clues about wanting an iPod for your birthday. Subtle, faint hints along the lines of “Blaine, they sell iPods at Wal-Mart. You DO know my birthday is next week, right?” When you open gift and see iPod, self-back-patting can commence. Pat with each arm 50 times, working those tricep-y things in the back of your arm that hang down and frighten you at baseball games.

3. Immediately put iPod in closet and do nothing with it for the next two weeks. Spend lots of time mentally compiling play list that you want …. But admit to yourself that “thinking” isn’t a Weight-Watchers approved activity.

4. Finally, finally, get iPod out of box and get ready to make music history.

5. Spend hours on iTunes downloading music, snacking on Quaker caramel-corn-flavored rice cakes the entire time, convincing yourself that if you eat food while listening to the very music you INTEND to exercise to later, those calories don’t count.

6. At long last, prepare to copy music to iPod.

7. Discover that apparently your computer is such an old piece of crap that it is incompatible with your new iPod because of some hi-speed vs. lo-speed USB something. Of some sort. Or something. Yell at computer screen. Pound computer desk. Kick leg of table. Swear. Shake fists at the heavens. Total body workout.

8. Dig through every fricken’ fracken’ piece of literature that came with the damn computer to find out if your USB-whatever-the-heck-that-is is hi-speed or lo-speed. Taking all those stupid manuals out of the computer desk, looking through them, and replacing them surely burns calories of one sort or another; bending, lifting, and replacing will whittle the waist.

9. Fire off extremely pathetic e-mail to girlfriend whose husband owns an iPod that works, begging for help. Acknowledge that finger-activity burns very little calories, so the typing itself is not helpful, but the hatred for all things technological coursing through your veins has GOT to be revving up your metabolism.

10. Go to local electronics store to ask about getting a new USB whatchamacallit, having to chase down sales representative in store. Walk at least a mile to and from registers to computer area, looking for elusive salesperson named “Dave”.

11. Accept that "Dave" has gone home for the day and wander up and down every aisle looking for the damn thing yourself. Stomp around the department when you can’t figure it out -- it’s like a step class and good for the calves. Power walk through the department, cursing and mumbling under your breath, until you realize the employees suspect you are shoplifting. Or crazy.

12. Buy something that looks like it might work and bring it home, only to discover you have no idea how to install it. Again, see: technology; burning hatred of; vein coursing.

13. Determine that to install new whatsitwhoozy, you must remove cover off hard-drive. Summon screwdriver, and husband to use it. Once cover is removed, commence to choke on the 79 pounds of airborne dust that is suddenly flying through the air. Coughing is VERY good exercise for the stomach muscles.

14. Remember that “supervising” from your computer chair is a very involved, high energy activity. Constantly leaning forward, to peer over his shoulder and offer helpful pointers, such as “I think that poke-y thing goes there” and “It looks like you need to line up the doo-hicky with the black blobby thing” and then leaning back to snort in contempt, is good for the abs.

15. Once new card is installed and working properly, and hard drive cover has been replaced, sweetly thank husband for his help and reassure him you can take it from here. Bonus calorie burn for smugness.

16. Realize you’ve somehow dropped your digital card reader behind the computer desk. Spend ten minutes trying to squeeze your size XL butt into a size M space between the wall and the desk to pick up the reader. Twist, turn, shimmy; all good for the hips.

17. Admit defeat. Yell for husband. Again. Louder when he pretends not to hear you. Throat and vocal cord exercises will prevent the need for chin-lifts later in life.

18. At long last, get all USB devices re-hooked up. Turn computer on. Jump up and down for joy when it actually WORKS! Jumping is good for the thighs, although not so great on the bladder control.

19. Attempt to transfer music from iTunes to iPod, holding breath the entire time. Breath-holding is a form of cardio and every bit as good for you as working on the elliptical.

20. Dance around the room in a combination of relief, happiness and pride when you discover the whole thing is working just as it should and you have jammin’ new tunes for your next visit to the gym. Dance into the living room to thank husband for cool gift and for his help. Dance around the room, congratulating self on your own fabulousness and extreme techno-savvy, until 7-yr old daughter states, “Mom, quit dancing. Seriously. I’m not even kidding.”

Number of cool new exercise tunes: Seventy-four and counting.

Total pounds lost: One. Half.

Blows to Ego: Too numerous to count

WHY EAVESDROPPING NEVER PAYS OFF

So, this gym where I’ve started working out (I figure if I keep mentioning it in this journal, then I’m more likely to continue going, what with the public accountability and all, right?) is primarily a physical therapy/rehab place. Lots of older people, recovering from accidents and illness and surgeries and what not. But they also have a “wellness” program for people who are interested in getting healthier, which is what I’m doing. I had to meet with a personal trainer-type person to discuss my overall goals the first day, and then he designed a workout plan for me. For some reason, he laughed when I said “Abs and Buns of Steel” as my primary goal, so we downgraded to “better overall health and fitness”. Hmmm. Imagine that.

It’s been interesting to me this first week to go in and see some of the other people, and play the guessing game in my head about what’s wrong with them, or if they’re there for “wellness” like I am. The guy riding the reclining bike with both legs in casts? I’m guessing car accident. Stroke victims are obvious. Etc. But I like this place for that very reason --- it’s not a bunch of PYT’s in spandex making me feel bad about myself. Granted, the 80 year olds who can out-lift me and out-walk me on the treadmill, yeah, *that* makes me feel bad about myself, ha! But overall I’m very comfortable there.

I do my warm up on an elliptical, and for the record, I am the most uncoordinated person on the planet and when I fall off and break my neck, don’t be surprised. Yesterday, there was a very fit, good looking guy on the elliptical next to me. He got off and started a circuit on the machines, lifting quite a bit of weight without any apparent problems, so I thought, “Aha! Another wellness person like me.” He was working out in a t-shirt and scrub pants that had happy faces all over them. An older lady with a very LOUD VOICE on the machine next to him struck up a conversation with him, and to take my mind off my flailing limbs on the elliptical, I was eavesdropping:

Older Lady: “I like those pants you have on. Where did you get them?”

Good Looking Guy: “You can buy them at {name of local medical supply store} but I got them when I was a patient at the Burn Center.”

OL: “Oh? You were burned?”

GLG: “Yep, over 50 percent of my body”

OL: “You look really good, I can’t see any scars”

GLG: “Lots of the burns were internal”

OL: “My house burned down last January but we weren’t home. Praise Jesus for you firefighters and the wonderful work you do.”

GLG: “Oh, I wasn’t a fire-fighter”

OL: “Oh, did your own house burn down?”

GLG: “Um, yes. Sort of”

OL: “Were you sleeping? What happened?”

GLG: “Actually, I was making meth.”

She never missed a beat.

OL: “Well that fire and you getting burned was a wake up call from the Lord!”

GLG: “Yes, ma’am, it sure was”

And then, I’m still not quite sure how, she went from praising Jesus to bashing President Bush and praising President Chavez in about 60 seconds, never taking a breath, with no end in sight. GLG was like a deer in the headlights, unable to escape, and all I could think was, “Yes. This is why I must get my iPod working immediately so I can NEVER eavesdrop again.”

And with that, on to Part 2 of this journal entry: the play-list. I want half of my play-list to be upbeat music, probably dance remixes and high energy songs that will be good for working out. I want the other half to be power ballads …. You know, the kind of song that you belt out while singing along to the radio in your car, quite confident that Celine Dion has NOTHING on you, baby!

Perfect example is Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart, which if I could give you just one more peek into last week’s karaoke debacle, was sung by me, NOT as a karaoke song, but by someone else, and I “helped” with the singing from the table, using a beer bottle as a microphone, which is made funnier by the fact that not only do I not drink beer, so it wasn’t MY bottle, but the bottle was given to me by the table next to me, two couples who were obviously in awe of my awesome vocal singing ability and encouraging me in my awesomeness by giving me their bottle to sing into.

No, I don’t drink much. Why do you ask?

So, I’m asking all of you for your song ideas in those two categories: “Good Upbeat Exercise Music”, and “Songs That Everyone Is Guilty of Singing In The Mirror Using a Hairbrush {or, beer bottle} For a Microphone”.

Any suggestions?

OH MY HOLY HELL. ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS?

Ya’ll. Seriously. If anyone was looking for Dante’s 10th Circle of Hell, I stumbled into it this morning. I did more than stumble into it, I parallel parked and stayed for an hour. And it was so horrifically bad, that I had to rush to my computer tonight to tell you all about it. Because I learned to share in kindergarten and I’m just generous like that.

I mentioned to you earlier that I’m still trying to drop this last twenty cough::thirty::cough pounds, and went to that aerobics class two weeks ago that I didn’t particularly enjoy. So then Blaine suggested I work out at the gym on base, but it’s a twenty-five minute drive both ways and the time of their classes doesn’t work for my schedule, or there’s a ladies fitness center near the house with convenient classes, but you have to practically take out a bank loan to attend, or I *could* walk on my own treadmill more often, but quite frankly it’s just not as fun …. You get the picture. Basically, I want the weight-loss fairies to come to my house at night while I’m sleeping and wave their fat-sucking wands over my body, rendering me slim and trim each morning. But I doubt that’s going to happen. Especially now that I’m getting older, and my metabolism is probably slowing down. You know how ineffective an old metabolism can be. Have I mentioned I’m getting older, and in fact am turning forty soon???? FORTY?

Anyway. Totally by coincidence, another mom at my kids’ school was telling me last week about a weight loss competition that one of our local karate schools is sponsoring. They are offering work-out sessions three mornings and three evenings a week and you don’t have to be a member to attend. She invited me, and assured me that 1) the music was very good {you all know how I feel about working out to The Funkadelics or Marvin Gaye} and 2) yes, it’s aerobics. I was VERY clear on that, since I have no interest in taking karate. She repeated, AEROBICS. As in, moving, aerobically. So I decided to give it a try this morning.

OH. MY. GOODNESS. (Ya’ll, the only reason I’m not dropping about a dozen F-bombs in this journal entry is because my mom and a few of her friends read it …. But trust me, the experience I had this morning was totally F-bomb worthy.)

I cannot even begin to tell you the discomforts that were thrust upon my person and my psyche during this one hour from Hell. But let me try:

First of all, I had to take my shoes and socks off. The class is taught barefoot. Let me repeat that, in case it wasn’t clear: MOTHER OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY I HAD TO WORK OUT BAREFOOT WITH A BUNCH OF OTHER BAREFOOT PEOPLE. Can you even imagine the crap you would see if you looked at this floor under a microscope????? And you want me to stand on it barefooted???? OK, that was like, anxiety attack #1.

Then we had stretches …. So far, so good. But then, THEN, (you have to really *see* the frantic hand gestures I’m doing when I tell this story to truly appreciate the dreadfulness) after the warm up, the instructor said, “Pick a partner” -------- I hate when people tell me to pick a partner! It always means something unpleasant and socially awkward is fixing to happen. I don’t want to have a partner, or be a partner! I’m a lone wolf, solitary, anti-social, and work better by myself!! Alone! No partners!

So the middle-aged lady next to me (Probably not much older than me, what with me being almost forty and all) turned to face me, and we had to take turns, for probably ten or fifteen minutes, first holding some kind of glove, and then a full-body pad, and try to punch and kick one another in the stomach! Punches!! Front kicks! And round-house kicks! (which, by the way, are actually much harder than they look) In the stomach! And the people around me in the room were like, grunting and exclaiming “Heeyah!” as they did this! And I’m thinking …. Where are the aerobics?! This isn’t aerobics! This is freakin’ karate!!!! Sure, I watched Ralph Macchio in the Karate Kid when I was younger, but I didn’t rush out then to earn my black belt and I’m not interested in doing it now!!! And I’m going to vomit because we are all barefoot and dripping sweat on this floor!!!

Oh, but it gets worse. Much worse.

Then, the instructor said it was time for our cardio. Cardio? Oh, thank God. This must be the aerobic part. I’ll admit, the music they were playing was pretty darn peppy. OK, I’m thinking, now it’s time for the good stuff, the move-to-the-beat-stuff that will make me feel better about myself when we’re finished.

So all the ladies grab a partner (Again? With the partner thing???) and line up at one end of the room. They all seem to know what they’re doing, so I tap my partner on the shoulder …. Um, excuse me? What are we doing? Her response: Suicide sprints. What the ….. ????? Suicide sprints?! On the karate mats?! I haven’t done a suicide sprint since I went out for 7th grade basketball, and I hated them then! Then the instructor throws down the gauntlet …. Every pair of women has to do two sets, and whichever pair comes in last, has to do three. So he blows the whistle, and the first group takes off, and I’m watching them …………. And they are every one of them, totally fucking cheating!!! Not ONE of them reaches down to touch the floor at the turning point. Hello?!?!?! Now granted, I might have only lasted four days in 7th grade basketball camp, but I learned how to do a proper suicide run while I was there! So when my partner completes her set (thankfully, in the middle of the pack so we won’t have to do another set) and runs back and slaps my hand (ugh! More touching of people I don’t know!) I decide I’m going to show these lazy-ass cheaters how a proper suicide drill is done. (I swear, I’m really not competitive. I simply don’t know what comes over me sometimes.)

I take off, running like the graceful gazelle I am, reach the quarter way point, bend down, touch the ground, spin around …………… and Oh my God, I’m fallllllllliiiinnnnnngggggg! I just fell flat on my ass!!! In the middle of the floor, in front of everyone! It wasn’t a little stumble, either, or the sort of goofy slip you do when you lose your balance a little ….. it was a full-blown, to-the-ground, America’s Funniest Home Videos kind of fall that takes like an entire minute for you to actually hit the floor, arms flailing all the time. And then I was like a kid on a freaking Slip and Slide when I hit the ground, with the weight and momentum of my fat ass propelling me about five feet down the mat!

I like to have died. And you know that wouldn’t have happened if they’d let me wear my cute new Avias like I wanted.

And what’s worse? By then we had totally fallen to last place. Thankfully, due to my amazing speed (aka. The other ladies were way overweight and slow) I was able to catch up again … but could I BE any more embarrassed???? Feel any more self-concious?? Wish with any greater intensity to be ANYWHERE but there????

Yes. As it turns out, I can.

Because believe it or not, it got worse.

Next, the instructor said we’d be working on our stomach muscles. Well, actually, what he said next was, “Holy cow, Uncoordinated-Girl, are you ok???” but we’ll just forget that part. Stomach muscles. Good. That’s the part of my body in the worst of the worst shape, so about five thousand crunches should do the trick. Hey everybody, grab a partner! And I’m thinking, “A partner? What on earth do I need a partner to do crunches for?” and then he said something so appalling, so horrifying, that I stopped for a moment, stunned. “Wrap your feet around each other’s feet and lock ankles!!!”

Oh. HELL to the NO if he thinks I’m going to wrap my feet around someone else’s ………….. ah, shit!!! SHIT!!!!!!!!!!! She just wrapped her feet around my feet!!!!!!!!! SOMEONE IS TOUCHING MY FEET WITH THEIR FEET!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I swear, I’m melting, I’m melting !!!!!

And then he wanted us to hold hands and take turns doing a sort of see-saw sit up and what did I do? Can you guess what I did??? I totally and 100 percent played the baby card. “I’m sorry! I just had a baby recently and can’t do sit ups like this ….. I think I’ll just scooch away and do some crunches by myself, ok?????”

And for a brief, shining moment, I congratulated myself on getting out of it.

And then?

It got worse. I know, you just don’t see how it’s even possible, but it did.

My partner lay on her back, and I had to stand with my feet on either side of her head, so she could GRAB MY ANKLES --- MY BARE FREAKIN’ ANKLES -- with her hands and pull her legs up to work her stomach muscles and then I had to push her feet back down each time. I. Had. To. Touch. Her. Feet. And when it was over (gag, I feel nauseous just thinking about it) I had to lay on my back. Oh my word. And she stood, with her feet right next to my head, and I had to grab hold of her ankles (ugh. I just threw up in my mouth a little just remembering the experience) and let her take a turn pushing MY feet back down.

Let me recap for you. I had a total stranger’s bare feet right next to my face. I had to hold onto her bare ankles. She was touching my bare feet. Me. Remember? I’m the one who can’t even get a pedicure because it grosses me out.

I’ve never fully understood the concept of hysterical behavior, where you can’t tell if a person is laughing or crying. You know, you hear about somebody who is so freaked out by something they get sort of panic stricken and just start wigging out until somebody grabs them by the shoulders and shakes them and shouts, “Get ahold of yourself, man!” and then maybe slaps them across the face for good measure? Today, that hysterical person, was me.

And you want to know what the best workout I had all day was? When I called my sister to recap this adventure for her on the phone, and we got to laughing so hard that I literally had tears running down my face (and I sort of almost slipped back into that hysterical laughing/crying thing again but I held it together). I’m not kidding, that ten-minute conversation did more for my stomach muscles than any of the touchy-feely karate shit we did in class.

And if I find out the ladies gym down the street offers a normal, shoes-on, nobody-touches-anybody, move-to-the-beat-without-having-to-round-house-kick-your-neighbor, aerobics class? I’ll get a second mortgage on my house if that’s what it takes. Otherwise, it looks like I’m stuck choosing between Marvin Gaye or the Karate Kid. Heaven help me.

THE MOST PAINFUL THING I’VE EVER EXPERIENCED.

And that includes the Semester of Hell in my Public Speech Class in College. And the time I had all my wisdom teeth pulled and got four dry sockets at the same time.

Let’s see, where to begin, where to begin? As you know, because I’ve certainly griped enough about it in the past, I’ve been carrying around some *cough* a lot *cough* extra weight since my last pregnancy and have been working hard to lose it. I’m actually sixty-five pounds lighter than the day I delivered Nicolas, which sounds fabulous until you realize I’m still at least thirty pounds overweight which means OH MY GOSH I WAS 100 POUNDS OVERWEIGHT AT THAT POINT!!! Sad, but true. So I’ve been dieting and doing ok, but the weight loss has plateaued, which is usually a sign that like it or not, it’s time to add exercise to the program if I want to see more results. (Did I mention GAG?)

In a stroke of perfect timing, a friend told me yesterday that a friend of hers is leading free tae-bo/aerobics classes at a local church three evenings a week, and would I like to join them??? So, because I haven’t exercised in at least five or six years, unless you count that brief, unfortunate period shortly after Kendrie was diagnosed when I decided to mall-walk in the mornings, with her in a stroller, and the old-people-mall-walkers were carrying hand weights and using ankle weights and still leaving me in a cloud of dust .... Well, if you don’t count that, it’s been forever. So I went out in preparation for the first class tonight and bought some new exercise clothes and tennis shoes, which Blaine says is silly (in his defense, he *does* know my track record with exercise programs and can see for himself that the treadmill in our bedroom is still used primarily as a dumping ground for clothes that need to go to the dry cleaners) but I keep reminding him the classes are FREE so actually I’m saving him money. Why he doesn’t *get* that, I don’t know. (sigh) Obviously, these new, adorably cute gray and lime-green Avias are going to make me perkier and more energetic in class, which translates into more calories burned … duh!

So anyway, tonight was the first class. My friend kept reminding me, “Now, you have to remember that the girl leading the class is not an actual instructor. She’s just the only person who was willing to stand in the front.” Fine, whatever, my expectations aren’t that high. Anything beats sitting on the couch, right? Warm up, jump around, cool down, as long as I break a sweat I’ll consider it progress over my normal course of activity, which is using my legs to roll my chair from my computer desk to my scrapbooking table across the room, stopping for a snack along the way.

Let me preface the rest of this story with the disclaimer that I despise it when someone complains about a problem but isn’t willing to do anything about it. Like the parents who hate the way the PTO is run, but won’t volunteer at the school. Or criticize from the stands, but can’t be bothered to help coach their kid’s soccer team. That sort of thing. This lady, this psuedo-aerobics-tae-bo-instructor, is willing to take her own time and come to the church and drag her boom box and stand up there without payment to lead this class. And I appreciate it. And you sure don’t see my fat ass up there. But oh my Gosh, DOES. SHE. SUCK!!

Now, I’m far from any kind of exercise goddess, as evidenced by the size of my thighs, but I’ve taken my share of aerobic classes over the years. Add in my six years of marching band and dance team in junior high and high school, and I can say, that while Richard Simmons isn’t worried about me replacing him on any new Sweating to the Oldies videos, at the very least, I DO have a sense of rhythm. I can follow along with the thump of music and understand that aerobic music normally beats to a count of eight.

This woman? Did not understand that.

She was nice. She was friendly. She was willing to stand up there and lead, which was more than I would do. But it was painful. Very, very painful.

First of all, the music? Terrible. All 1970’s and 1980’s R&B stuff. Like she was walking through someone’s yard sale and saw a bunch of Mo-town 8-tracks and though, “Hey! This will be perfect for that tae-bo class!” and so she bought them and then made a tape for herself by recording random songs off various 8-tracks. This song playing now? It was the last song we heard tonight on the tape and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head all night.

And it wasn’t even that the music was bad (it was) but that there were long stretches of silence between each song on the tape. Stretches of silence where we just stood or marched in place because there was no music. Like the kind of crappy home-made tapes you used to listen to in Jr. High, when you tried to get all the Styx and Journey and Kansas ballads onto one tape because you thought that would be really cool.

And I’m not sure why the music was even important, because she had no sense of the beat. None. At all. And the movements weren’t done in sets of eight, she counted off in sets of ten. Ten. Anyone who knows anything about music knows it’s nothing more than math, and it’s not done in sets of ten. But hers was. And in between each set of ten, she would have to walk up to the table in front of her to look at her sheet of paper and see what movement was next so we would simply march in place and wait. There was no flow, no order. Stop and start. Stop and start. Count to ten. It was difficult to watch, and practically impossible to follow.

The whole thing was so bad as to be kind of funny. We did our warm up and stretches and they were ok, although I noticed immediately that she wasn’t on the beat. Then we stopped to get a drink of water. Then we started with the exercises, stopping every time she had to check her paper, and in the silence before every new song came on. Then we got another drink of water. Then we stopped half way through the “core” part of the workout to stretch again. Then did floor work, and then did actual tae-bo movements until the end, slower, but no cool down.

After just a few minutes, I knew I couldn’t follow along because there was a beat, and she wasn’t following it. (Have I mentioned she wasn’t on the beat? EVER? Remember those times you were asked to slow dance with some boy, and he just moved side to side at his own speed, irregardless of what the music was doing? And you would think, “My gosh, can’t you step left and right in time to the music?” Well, that’s exactly how this was only with exercising! And bad R&B music!)

Finally I thought, OK, I’m simply going to do the movements with the music, and who cares if I’m not in perfect synch with the instructor or the rest of the class, because apparently none of them have a sense of timing either, or maybe they’re all deaf and just can’t hear the music. (Yes, these are the thoughts that were going through my head during the class.) Then I even thought, “Maybe this is Candid Camera or something! I can’t be the only one in this entire room who can hear the music.” I know I looked completely goofy, flailing about at my own speed, doing my own thing, and they probably all talked about “that poor uncoordinated girl in the corner” after I left. And I even caught myself thinking, “Wow, if they are all together, and I am the only one who is not, am I wrong? Do I really NOT have a sense of rhythm and all these years I’ve been deluding myself?” But I really, truly think maybe it was a deaf people’s aerobics class.

And what’s worse, is I have to stick it out, because *my* friend thinks it's great and I don’t have the nerve to tell her how terrible I think it is. And, like I said, even though I’m sitting here complaining, you don’t see ME offering to lead the class. And even bad aerobics to Motown is better than no aerobics. And? I have to justify the cute little gray and lime-green Avias, or Blaine will mock me. Again.

A MOTHER’S LOVE CAN OVERCOME ANYTHING. EVEN VANITY.

So, after listening to myself kvetch and gripe about how everyone still thinks I am pregnant because apparently I am a big huge fat ass, I decided it was time to take some action. Time to make some changes in my wardrobe that would allow me to walk about in public without constantly being asked when my baby is due, and overall, feeling slovenly and unkempt. You know, put up or shut up about the way I look.

“Wardrobe” is in fact a very generous term for the clothes I have hanging in my closet. Styles have changed the past few years and needless to say, I haven’t kept up. I’m a Stay-At-Home-Mom … a What-Not-To-Wear, just waiting to happen ... it’s not like I need high-end clothing to drop my kids off at school each morning. The majority of my summer clothes were purchased for my last class reunion in a desperate, “Oh-my-gosh-my-class-reunion-is-this-weekend-and-I-have-nothing-to-wear!” trip to the mall several years ago. Apparently, it was the geriatric section of the mall, since all the blouses make me look like a 72 yr old woman preparing to take a bus tour with her church friends. All that’s missing is the fanny pack and big straw hat. Trust me; it was time for a change.

So today, armed with my Visa card and the resolve that in some cultures, hundreds of years ago, my body shape would be revered, off I went. I was fully embarked on a mission to find clothes that would show off the hip, stylish, groovy mom that I am. Or that I think I am. Or that I would like to be, or like to at least fake others into thinking that I am. Maybe. If I'm lucky.

As everyone knows, the most sure-fire way to ensure a shopping trip will fail is to leave the house with money to spend and ample time to spend it. But believe it or not, I actually found some shirts that I liked! That fit! That made me look NOT eligible for an AARP discount!

And thanks to Kathy, from Gainesville, GA, and her tip in the guestbook about Lee Relaxed Fit Jeans, I found two pair of jeans that I liked, too.

So then I was like a crazy person and decided well hey, if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it right, so I went ahead and splurged on three pair of sandals because everyone knows you can never have too many pair of brown sandals (and to any man who might be reading this who doesn’t understand that, trust me when I tell you I bought one pair of auburn, one pair of chestnut, and one pair of mahogany, and YES, there is a difference.) Seriously, I was like a shopper on speed and the only reason I stopped then was because I couldn’t carry another bag without throwing my back out.

I came home and gleefully unpacked all the packages, congratulating myself on my fashion-savvy and thinking about how chic I would look wearing my new clothes. And I decided, you know what? Kellen has a baseball game tonight. Granted, it’s nothing more than hot dogs and sunflower seeds at a dirt field, but by golly, I’m wearing my new clothes and showing off my trendy self, so everyone can admire the new, modish me!

And so the dressing began. New shirt (one of those little strappy numbers that all the “in” crowd is wearing these days) new jeans, new sandals; I even put on jewelry, brushed my hair, touched up my makeup, and spritzed a little perfume in the air -- woohoo! Truly, I was a fashion diva. I practically left lipstick-kiss marks on the mirror from where I was admiring myself so much.

Blaine and Kendrie stayed home tonight, and as I drove Brayden and Kellen to the game, she asked, “Does that big cloud in the sky mean the game is going to be rained out?” I was so busy winking at myself in my rear-view mirror that I hadn’t even noticed a cloud. But I responded, “No, it’s not a rain cloud, just a cloud-cloud”, all the while thinking that the cloud was great news, because then I wouldn’t need my sunglasses and more people could admire my smoky-kohl eyeliner. I’m telling you, I was WORKING IT, girl!

When we parked the van, Brayden asked one last time, “Are you sure we don’t need an umbrella?” That was when I remembered I had taken the umbrellas out of the car last month when I had it detailed and never put them back in …. Oh well, I was still positive it wasn’t going to rain. So we got to the game about half an hour early, set up our chairs, and waited. The two teams in front of us were finishing up their game, while I chatted with some other parents and skillfully flipped my hair around, sucking my stomach in all the time, thinking truly, I am hot stuff.

Then our boys took the field. And I felt a “plop, plop” on my arm. Then another. Oh dear, looks like it might rain.

Before five minutes had gone by, it was raining hard enough that most of the parents had taken sanctuary under the snack bar roof. *I* didn’t, because by golly, my boy was on first base and I wasn’t going to miss a minute of it. I wasn't going to let a few little sprinkles run me off ---- Kellen was playing ball, and I would stay there and cheer for him until the bitter end, that's how much I love him!! Until it started raining hard enough that it was running down the back of my new, stylish pants and the crack of my heiny. That pretty much did it for me and I joined everyone else under the snack bar.

Before ten minutes had gone by, it was raining so hard they stopped the game to see what the weather was going to do. For another ten minutes, I stood under the snack bar roof, with a hundred other wet, sweaty parents, amazed at how closely-packed bodies in 100 percent Georgia humidity can feel sticky, even when you’re not actually touching one another. And also spent those ten minutes watching the sky for lightning, because the team was huddled in the dug-out, under a metal roof.

By the time twenty minutes had gone by, they had called the game. So what were we to do? The rain obviously wasn’t letting up, the game had been postponed until tomorrow, we didn’t have umbrellas, and the van was parked a hundred yards away at the other end of the parking lot. Naturally.

So what *did* we do? Well, we gathered up as much dignity as we could, stepped out into the pouring rain, packed up our chairs, and walked to the van, jumping in puddles and trying to catch as many raindrops as we could on our tongues.

Tonight was *supposed* to be trophy presentation night, so lucky for you, I had a camera there to capture the moment.



You tell me --- baseball mom, or Alice Cooper look-alike?

And you know what was really funny? By the time we got to the parking lot, I was so very soaking wet, and my new strappy blouse was completely plastered to my mid-section, causing not one, but TWO parents on the way out to say to me (that’s right …. Everyone together …. Say it with me now…..) “Haven’t you had that baby yet????”

Oh well. “E” for effort, right?