4 years and counting...

Today is Sloan and my 4th wedding anniversary. I am wanting to write something really profound to express to him how I feel, and for a girl who loves words I'm not sure I can think of just the right ones. And it can't be sappy. I am the girl, after all, who has violent physical reactions to Nicolas Sparks. (Just typing his name has made me shake with disgust. But I digress...)

I'd like to first thank my husband for this year actually asking for something for our anniversary. Usually I just have to wing it as he'll say "Don't get me anything." This year he requested to watch the South Carolina vs. NCSU football game in its entirety. Done and done!



It also should be noted that I'm married to the most patient and level-headed man on the planet as I'm pretty much mental. I often tell friends that if Sloan treated me the way I treat him, we'd have a real problem on our hands. On a regular basis I say, "Honey, since you are headed down to the kitchen will you get me some water?" Every time I've asked this he's been under the covers reading his book. And yet, because he loves me and thinks this little joke of mine is endearing, he gets me water. I think the fact that my husband is willing to wait on me is one of the many signs that God knows me, loves me, and maybe even God thinks it's kind of cute.



And while I was digging through my writing stuff yesterday, I happened upon our wedding service. We wrote it in its entirety, from prayers to the vows (all but the pastor's homily). And when I say we, I mean when I asked Sloan if he liked what I'd written and did that sound okay he'd look up from his book and say "yeah". So I thought, in addition to making my husband's favorite dinner (NOT MEATLOAF!) and watching football with him, I'd also take a gander at these vows that I'm supposed to be keeping.



Before God and these witnesses, and in reliance upon the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, I, Elizabeth Jean-Ann Johnson, take you, Charles Sloan Phillips , to be my husband,
To have and to hold,
To love and to cherish,
To give and to receive,
To speak and to listen,
To confront and to comfort,
To repent and to forgive,
To encourage and to respond,
To respect and honor
“for where you go, I will go; your people will be my people; and your God will be my God.” I promise to bear with you and to be faithful to you in all circumstances of our life together so that we may join to serve God and others as long as we both shall live.



Hmmmm.....



I still like what I wrote and still think these are good vows. But I'm pretty sure the only ones I'm keeping on a regular basis are the speaking, confronting, and responding. And we 'have and hold' each other I guess. But I'm not even sure I know what it means to cherish someone. Is this what Sloan and I do when we sneak into to watch Henry sleep at night? And the whole dog debacle clearly shows that I don't listen to my husband.



And dang it all, I just don't like that I vowed to repent and to forgive. Certainly these are the foundations of a good marriage. Doesn't scripture tell us that the one who is forgiven little loves little? But I'd rather be right than be forgiven. Which brings me to the thing that is even harder for me to do than forgive--to repent. To repent literally means to change one's mind or purpose. But more than that it means such a change as would reverse the effects one's own previous state of mind. It's not just saying you are sorry. Sorry I can do. I think were I to repent it might look like this-- "Sloan, not only am I sorry that I didn't listen to you when you said a puppy would be a bad idea for our family, but I am going to listen to you, count your opinions as valid, and defer to you on decisions when they affect the daily goings on in the Phillips house."



But did you notice that even in my efforts to sound repentant I snuck in the loophole of 'when they affect..."?



But for better or worse, these are the vows I took. And I don't believe in renewing your vows or whatever as if they didn't take the first time. So instead of saying to Sloan, "I did and I still do" on our anniversary--I'm going to say this:



I haven't. I want to. Thanks for being mine and making me yours.

You are my favorite.

Pastel de Carne

For those of you who don't know--I'm working on a book. Sometimes I work on it in a frenzy, other days I get bogged down by the fact that when I'm through with it I won't know what to do next. Maybe just go to Kinko's? Who knows? But I'm writing about what we went through in order to become Henry's parents.

Lately I've been more focused on working out, trying not to kill the dog (whose adoption fell through!), and painting the kitchen than I have been about the book. So today I went to sort of read through everything and put stuff in some sort of order. (I've got like 200 pages completed, but it isn't in chronological order and some of it is very rough.) So I'm searching through files on my computer and I come to a file called "Meatloaf Recipe". This wasn't shocking as I've titled some of my chapters pretty odd things. Things like "Mick Jaggar is a seat filler", "I love drugs", "Not enough Valium", and, my favorite "There's a Needle in my who-ha."

But I couldn't for the life of me remember when I'd ever written about Meatloaf. Was in in remembrance of the first meatloaf I ever made in my first year of marriage? I didn't have a recipe so I just through some stuff in a loaf pan with some hamburger meat and cooked it. That sounds right, doesn't it? But apparently those green flecks in meat loaf are green peppers--not pickles, and you are supposed to use ketchup, not salsa. So we have come to call this "Mexi-Meatloaf" and it has never been served in the Phillips house again. (Although my sweet husband ate it.)

Nope. I've never written on Meatloaf. It was, in fact, shockingly, a meatloaf recipe by Alton Brown.

No, it's not Danger. It's Marshall.

Henry surveys the fountain.
As Henry gets older, it is great to see his personality evolve. Like me, he is all about action never wanting to sit still, and yet, loving to sleep in. (Do any of your kids sleep until 8:45?) Like his father, he loves remotes and turning on and off the TV. Like me, he cannot stand to be told no and never hesitates to show his disappointment. Like his father, he thinks the only thing more tasty on earth than a hot dog is a hot dog infused with cheese.
But never more apparent has his burgeoning temperament been on display than when he is faced with something new. Sloan and I took him to the fountains at Stony Point Fashion Park. Let me first say that once again I was reminded that having a baby has made me stupid. I remembered his swim diapers, crocs, the camera, but forgot to bring a towel. So I ended up having to buy a towel at Restoration Hardware. I also forgot that maybe I should wear a bathing suit too. Oh well. It's just water, right?

I assumed that my little dare devil would be like me and see the spraying water and just run right in. He'd see danger, say "That's my middle name" and we'd never see him again. But he did not. Nor did he seem afraid of the water. Rather, he was daringly cautious. In fact, now that I think about it, he seemed very mature when posed with a new phenomena.
He circled the fountain. He checked out all of the children and their mothers who were parked on benches circling the fountain. He checked out how cool he looked in his crocs in the store windows. Then, slowly, he approached the fountain. On the perimeter, there are little squirts that barely shoot up. He bent down and put his little finger in it, it sprayed him. He backed up a bit, tilted his head to one side, and then proceeded to test all of the perimeter fountains. Then he saw that there were larger ones on the inside and that sometimes there was no water. He also noticed the lights in set in the ground and checked these out as well. And then every now and then I'd pick him up, put him in the water directly and without getting upset, he'd set back to his investigation. Sloan and I were about to pack up, thinking that he'll like it better when we bring him back with his cousins. We'd been there 30 minutes and though he'd investigated it, he didn't seem too into it. But then he started laughing. He'd bend down, put his hand in the spout, it would spray water and then he'd laugh. And then he was off. Running like Frankenstein through the water. He never ventured into the center where the lights and big fountains were, but enjoyed the fountain nevertheless. I am proud to say that maybe danger isn't Henry's middle name and that that is a good thing.

Tired of the Paparazzi

Mom. Can't you see I'm working here? Get that camera out of my face. It has become all too clear that you aren't doing any of the yard work around here and I've got to pick up your slack. (This is a face that I see Sloan make pretty much everyday. On Sloan it is usually in response to "Can it be take your kid to work day today? I'd really like to sleep in...)

So I just scoot this thing around and pick up sticks right Mom?

It was okay when we were outside. I get that--I'm a public figure. But I'm trying to eat here, lady. I'm going to have to give you the hand or as my Daddy says, "FACE!"

Resolutions and Unlikely Prophets

I've never been one for resolutions. Seems to me they are a waste of time. Maybe they are helpful in making us aware of areas we need to work on (spouses, children, and dogs are great for this too, I've found). But in my experience, every attempt to make and keep a resolution has simply been an opportunity for me to lie to myself, embarrass myself, or just plain fail.

But today, no New Year's, my birthday, or anything other than Tuesday, I am wanting to make a resolution. And, admittedly, it is an impossible resolution so it seems a bit silly to type this. But on this day, Tuesday, August 19, 2008, I resolve to remember lessons learned--I resolve to stop being shocked that God loves me and is for me. (I think I may have tried this before...) I resolve to stop worrying so danged much.

I was worried about Lolly. That no one would want her. We took her to the Petsmart adoption thingy and before we could even get her crate out of the car, we met the family that is going to take her home in a couple of days. And God was so complete in His love for us and Lolly that she is being adopted by the family that owns her litter mate, Brady. The family hadn't planned on coming to the adoption event, but was getting a new collar for Brady and saw Lolly and recognized her from when they were both at the shelter as puppies. They asked if she was Lily, I informed them of the name change, and they expressed their regret at not having adopted both of them. So I am resolving to remember that if God loves my cracked out pooch enough to reunite her with her brother, than He is far more than capable at getting me through these last few days with her.

I worry that I don't play with Henry enough. That I don't sit on the floor and build towers with him or show him flashcards. One day I tried to do nothing but pay attention to Henry and engage him and stimulate him developmentally. By 11 am I was ready to scream and the whole left side of my body had fallen asleep. I worry that I don't read him enough books. I worry that he'll sing the theme song to Barney before he sings Jesus Loves Me. I worry that he drinks too much milk. I worry that he eats too much meat and cheese and not enough vegetables. I worry that he'll always spend a lot of time making faces in the mirror. I worry that I run too quickly to comfort him when he falls. I worry that I ignore him too much when he falls. So I resolve to remember what I learned in the hospital--as much as I love Henry, it ain't squat to how God feels about him. I resolve to remember that Henry is on loan and His maker promises good to him. I resolve to remember that redeeming things is what God does and that I can't screw my child up so much that God can't straighten it out.

I worry about falling off the work-out wagon. That I'll stop going the gym and one day I'll wake up and be content being unhealthy and overweight. For this, God has sent Eminem to save me. (By the way, I am pretty sure I am the first person ever to believe God has sent Eminem to save them. Maybe I should worry about this.) My friend Mollie uses the hymn "Turn your eyes upon Jesus" to keep her grounded. I, on the other hand, use the song "Lose Yourself." It is the first track on my EJP Exercise playlist and I hear it every morning when I start my workout.

Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted-One moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip?

Look, people, I've already admitted to being crazy. This is old news. So seeing Eminem as a prophet really shouldn't be shocking. I hear the slow beats and the voice of Marshall Mathers and I think, "He's right. Food stamps won't buy diapers. But I can be healthy. I can be skinny."

I probably oughtta resolve to listen to different music.

Baby Jesus, Baby Weight, and Baby Blisters

Yesterday I found baby Jesus in the trash can. (Along with a book about Thomas the tank engine, a toy hammer, three blocks, and a brand new container of baby wipes. So much for getting a trashcan with a lid that locked). I think this sums up how life has been for the Phillips clan the past couple of days--irreverent, chaotic, but so much so you just have to laugh.

We had my sister and her brood over for dinner Saturday night and had a blast until the puppy-child roughhousing got a little out of hand and my 5 year old nephew's ear had to get super glued back together.

We stayed up so late with family that Henry slept in until 9:15 on Sunday, making it impossible for us to get to church on time. But my good friend Stef (who lives in Dallas!), surprised us and came to hang out for the day. We had burgers and shakes for lunch and I spent the afternoon paranoid that the greasiness was taking over my arteries. Despite this, I am two weeks early for my first weight loss goal. (And I am totally burying what rightfully deserves to be the headline here people!) I've finally lost the baby weight. Now that my son is 15 months old. I've lost 30 lbs. My next goal is another 30 lbs by November 20th. I want to look fabulous for a friend's wedding and redeem myself for the last time I saw all of my husband's high school buddies. If you don't want to follow the link--I'll just say that the last time I saw these people not only was I 30 lbs heavier, but I'd had 5 glasses of wine before 7:30 pm. And chicken curry was served.

We decided it was time for Lolly to go back to the shelter. This was after much prayer and tears and confessing that I would've done it awhile ago had it not been for my insanely large ego and fear of what the shelter people would think of me. They've been great, but there is no room for her at the shelter as of now. We are acting as her foster parents. We went to the first night of obedience school and she was the most enthusiastic dog there. (That was a nice way of me saying she was the most cracked out pup there!) She now is calmer, as if she knows she is sort of on probation. Or it could be that I keep loading up her Kong with peanut butter to get her out of my hair.

I decided to help my sister with some of her errands. While doing so, I lost her ATM card.

This morning I noticed that Henry had blisters on his fingers. So unless he's been doing yard work or is channeling Ringo Starr, I think we're getting some sort of virus.

I finally sold out treadmill on Craigslist. We're also selling a mantle if you are interested. But I also overpaid my handyman $100 and now have to wait for him to "drop by" with a check.

But, in case you were wondering, I did rescue baby Jesus from the trash can.

Ode to Facebook, Part 2

Facebook is an odd thing. A bit lit a cyber-cocktail party where you mingle, catch up with old high school buddies, stalk ex-boyfriends, and you can do all this from your house without having to suck in or put on a party dress. It really is quite fabulous.

I'm learning there are all sorts of facebook friends. Family members, actual friends, those friends that you wish you kept in better touch with, that guy you sat next to in Poli 41. Some facebookers are devoted--they send you flair, play Text Twirl with you, and send you plants to put in your garden (please stop doing this people! There's no way you can convince me that planting cyber plants is going to save the world.) There are even those facebookers who are only on facebook because their wives made them do it. And so you accept their friendship request knowing that you can use them on all your Oregon Trail wagons and they won't care because they never check the thing anyway.

I've gotten some friendship requests from people I don't know. These unknowns fall into two categories--spammers, and people that maybe I "oughtta know" but I can't tell because the darned program won't let me make their picture any bigger. So I refuse the spammers (I don't know ANYONE that lives in India, do I?), and accept the "oughtta knows" and cross my fingers. And having friends in common is a good sign that you've at least met the person, but it's a crap shoot, people.

I also love how FB suggests friends for you. A lot of time I do know their suggestions but turn them down out of fear of being an "oughtta know" or worse, a "wish I didn't know". There are also some people on there that I'm certain I was pretty rude to or ignored, so I pass them over (further ignoring them!) in the fear that they'll write on my wall--"So I'm good enough to be your facebook friend, eh? Where were you in high school?"

But them sometimes Facebook sends you joy. Like getting one more beer out of a floating keg--you get something unexpected--a friendship request from someone you've been cyberstalking for years. This happened to me yesterday, with my dance teacher, and I'm still smiling.

I checked my email to see that I'd received a friendship request from CP. CP? Really? Could it be? I sat frozen staring at the little link wondering if it could be true. Does she really want to be my friend? Is this a mistake? Maybe it's not her. I can't remember if she's gone back to her maiden name. Every time I've googled her, under all the various names I could think of, I've only gotten high school track stars. And suddenly I was flooded with all of my memories of growing up in dance class and how I really wanted to be her. She was kind, the most beautiful regular person I've ever seen, had the best bangs in the whole wide world (it was the early 90s), and more than anyone else could--she made me feel like a million bucks. I was always the biggest girl in the class, but she never made me feel anything other than beautiful. And when, in my junior year of high school, I chose cheerleading, soccer, and drama over dance, it broke my heart.

At some point I realized I needed to take a chance, press the link, and see. And there it was. CP. And she is even prettier than I remembered. And just thinking about her is making me stand straighter, tuck my hips in, and pull in my stomach.

I think I'm going to have to send her some flair.

Cookie Monster

Some things get better with age--wine, men, Moravian sugar cookies. I found a canister of them in the pantry last night and decided to see if Henry liked them. And they were stale--which

means that instead of being dainty

and crispy, they were chewy, gooey, and little circles of heaven. (You see, I had to taste them to make sure they weren't poison.)

And Henry loves them.

Operation Domination

I've been reading up on how to train my dog. Apparently, I have been confusing her by not being the "Alpha Dog." So now I am trying to dominate her. (I kid you not, this is the lingo all the puppy training sites use." There can be only one bitch in the Phillips house and since I still have all my girl parts--it's gonna be me.

Domination includes things like never letting her go through a door before me, making her wait until we are done eating for her to be fed, and making my hand seem like a mouth when I gently put it on her neck. I'm also supposed to be able to train her to poo on command. Considering I haven't mastered this one myself, I'm going to be slack on this. One of the things I'm supposed to do when she jumps up is to take charge of my space. To step into her as she jumps and claim the space as my own. It is very "This is your dance space and this is mine" and you just know how I love incorporating Dirty Dancing into my daily routine.

It is going okay. Not great, but okay. My first goal is for Henry to make it through a feeding without being malled by Lolly. Henry is not helping out much by throwing pieces of pasta at her. So I put the leash on her so I could pull her back onto her bed and set Henry up for his afternoon snack. What I want her to do is remain on her bed until Henry is finished eating and then when I get him out of his highchair, I'll let her clean up. And I've also decided that she needs to be lying down on her bed, not standing there barking and waiting to pounce on any stray goldfish that hits the floor. So I'd say "Bed" and pull her to her bed and wait until she laid down and then I'd give her a treat. Henry did not get attacked, but I'm thinking of counting snack time as another 20 minutes of cardio. Here are the stats--

What Henry ate: 1 banana, three strawberries, and 6 ritz crackers

Number of times I had to drag Lolly back to her bed: (I counted!) 54

What Lolly ate: Half of a hot dog and three slices of bologna

Sometimes I wondered if she was just getting off of the bed to get more meat. Can dogs be manipulative? But I know she knows what the command "Bed" means. I think I oughtta research how to get her to stay.

Happy Birthday, Auntie Ann!

(Warning--this blog entry was not written by Elizabeth but dictated to her by Henry.)

Mommy says it is my Auntie Ann's birthday. I love Auntie Ann. She gives me stale peppermint patties and lets me drool the chocolate all over her office. I get to see her a lot since she works at the church. She lets me push buttons on her printer. She has tasty blond hair and lets me play with it. She doesn't get angry when I smash meat sticks into the conference room table. She doesn't like it either when Mommy pushes back my cuticles because it makes me cry. We both like to point at things. Mommy says Auntie Ann loved me even when I was still in her tummy and came to visit her in the hospital every week. Supposedly she has a cat, but I'm trying not to hold that against her. I love Auntie Ann--she is one of the bestest fairy Godmothers ever. Mommy says her friendship keeps her sane. I have doubts about what my Mommy considers sane...

Even Daddy likes Auntie Ann and Daddy has great taste in women.

(Hey Mommy, can't we get a newer pic of me and Auntie Ann? I've got so much more hair now!)

Blessed are the puppy owners, for they shall receive mercy?

Bonnie Raitt sang “I can’t make you love me.” But can I make myself love you? Can I muster up the emotional fortitude required to love someone if they are, in my opinion, unlovable? More and more I am finding that I cannot. I am a bad lover. And it pisses me off.

I do not love my dog. There—I said it. I’m a bad person and a bad dog owner. I like her—I simply do not love Lolly. Love is patient, and I’ve got none of that for my four legged friend. If I loved her, I would count her value as higher than the damage she has done to my house. She has now ruined four pieces of siding on the outside of the house, ripped off the outside dryer vent and chewed it up, gnawed on my kitchen island stools, and no matter how many times I sweep or vacuum the kitchen, there are still these hairballs everywhere when I go to mop. And it cannot be that she doesn’t have enough chew toys. She has bones shaped like discs, doughnuts, and, oddly enough, bones. She has Frisbees, tennis balls (2 of which she has destroyed), ropes, and several squeaky toys. And I’d give her more attention if she didn’t try to gnaw my hand off every time I went to pet her. And maybe I do put her outside too much, but she attacks Henry every time she sees him and he is top dog around here.

More and more I am thinking that maybe this puppy thing was a mistake. And I’m embarrassed about that. I don’t want to be one of those people, who return their dog to the shelter, but I can’t afford to keep fixing stuff she destroys and I like her enough to know that it isn’t really her fault and maybe she just needs an owner who loves her. We begin obedience school with her next week. I figure I owe her the opportunity to learn some things that would make her fit into our family more. Maybe she can earn my love?

I really am quite ashamed to admit that I don’t love my dog. I know I’m responsible for her cracked out behavior. Being loved changes people. I’m pretty sure it is probably just part of being a created being—the need to be loved. I want to love her—but I know that any love I do muster for her will be conditional. I don’t like that about myself. I do not like that if my dog were cuddly, didn’t jump up, let me clip her nails, didn’t eat my son, and didn’t run in circles around the island constantly, I’d probably love her. And what does that say about me? I’d love my dog if she were easy to love. Augh. My heart is so hard.

If all you do is love the lovable, do you expect a bonus? Anybody can do that. If you simply say hello to those who greet you, do you expect a medal? Any run-of-the-mill sinner does that. In a word, what I'm saying is, Grow up. You're kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you." -Matthew 5:46-48, The Message

I’m not sure if God is intending this Scripture towards dogs. I’m not mistreating her or anything, just gritting my teeth and considering returning her if the training doesn’t go well. (But would I miss her? Would we adopt an older dog? Is it a dog thing or just a puppy thing? Can’t she just be sweet and lie at my feet, put her nose in my lap and gently swish her tail? Does she have to jump on me and the furniture and eat everything in sight?) But my hardness towards Lolly does show me a greater problem lurking in the recesses of my gunk filled heart. And quite frankly, I’ve got enough to repent of already. I don’t need my dog adding to it, thank you very much.

Before I met Sloan I lived with 2 girls in a brownstone in a hip area of Richmond called the Fan. One of my roommates and I didn’t always get along because, and I am not exaggerating here, two more different people have never been created. I love television, being loud, junk food, arts and crafts, and was working as a nanny while I went to graduate school. She read books by Descartes in her free time, ate healthy, worked out, and worked in a research lab while getting her… (Wait for it)… dual MD/PhD in Neurology and Neuroscience. I would not be surprised if she found a cure for Parkinson’s disease. She’s that smart. But we had nothing in common except a love for Jesus. Our living together proved two things—loving Jesus both is and isn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough that we both loved Jesus for us to get along. Mainly because I wanted her to love Jesus in my way and she just didn’t seem to get the picture. I wanted her loving Jesus to look like a new best friend for me and going out to lunch after church and her whipping out her guitar to lead the house in rounds of “Lord I Lift Your Name on High.” And occasionally we did those things. We even found that we both had a crush on Vincent D'Onofrio from Law and Order: SVU.

One day we got into a fight about cereal or maybe me forgetting to lock the door. I cannot be sure. My memory is hazy and most assuredly it was my fault. I just remember storming out the door to go to class so angry that my hands were shaking and I spent the entire drive to Union thinking up mean zingers to say to her when I got home. I even started to write them down when I got to class, lest I forget the bile I wanted to spew at her. But then, you see, I was in seminary. I was sitting in a New Testament class and we were about to go over the Sermon on the Mount. I specifically remember thinking, “Augh. God! Why are you doing this to me? I am enjoying being witty and sarcastic and it will feel so good to really cut her down to size!” And then to top it all off, my professor talked about how some people think this is just a call to charity. And that it is that. But it is also a description about our hearts—poor, mournful, thirsty, and the blessings of the people of God—righteousness, mercy, and to see God’s face. And that without seeking to see God’s face the rest was impossible.

Dang it. Dang it all.

You mean I can’t just make a list of things that would be nice and loving and do it? You mean I actually am supposed to feel love and you’re also telling me that without God it is impossible? Maybe the reason why it is hard to get along with my roommate is because there is something wrong with me? That my self-righteousness is unfounded? That my definition of loving her is really just an extension of me loving myself? Dang it. I do not like that. At all. And how the heck do I get off of this horse…it is so stinkin’ high.

I would like to say that I tossed the sheet of zingers and went home and everything was peachy keen. But I didn’t and it wasn’t. Unfortunately, coming to grips with my own unlovableness wasn’t a one time thing, and so my loving my roommate came slowly—but when love showed up, it was genuine. And it was freeing to learn that she didn’t have to change for me to love her—that in fact, Jesus loving us was enough.

But I’m not sure how this knowledge helps me with the dog. My roommate never crapped in the kitchen, ate the furniture, or ran around the house with my panties in her mouth.

Make it spicy...

I really wish you had been with me this morning in my Zumba class. I'm pretty sure you would've peed in your pants.

For starters, Monday's Zumba class is actually called Zumba Lite. Which basically means it is just 45 minutes instead of an hour. The fact that it has Lite in the title also denotes that it is a hit with the geriatrics at the gym, which I love. When I got to the regular Zumba class, I am among my peers, huffing and puffing as I cha cha and samba to the Latin beat. And I feel flabby and sweaty. In Zumba lite, I'm a good 30 years younger than the average participant and so I feel a bit like one of Britney's back-up dancers by comparison. I also feel inspired by the fact these seniors are still moving and groovin', even if only ever so slightly. I also love that these seniors wear the craziest things to class. Shirts with collars tucked into matching pants, complete with a belt. They are my heroes.

But this morning's class was a bit different. The usual Zumba lite teacher was out of town and so we had a substitute. This teacher did not like being on the stage, so she was down on the floor with us. If you had been looking in on the class, you would've thought she smelled, because there was a clearance of about 10 feet all around her. She also sang along with the music and yelled out things like, "Picante!" She also encouraged us to do the moves with attitude. Does having attitude burn more calories? I do have attitude. My attitude is that if you don't stop saying "Spicy" and "Picante" I'm going to lose my composure. My attitude is that I am not looking at myself in the mirror on purpose. I am sweaty. And parts of my body are shimmying that I have not asked to. And yes, this is as low as I can go.

And then she asked us to pony. Around the room. Doesn't she know that I'm already out of my comfort zone shaking my hip and shoulders and inadvertently flopping my belly and boobs around and now she wants me to take the show on the road? This also means I'll have to see the other people in the class and this is not acceptable. There is an unwritten rule (I think) in these sorts of classes--no eye contact, whatsoever. And ponying around the room to the music from Casa Grande Mexican Restaurant means I have to look at people so I don't run into them. Most of them were smiling. And then I started laughing because I thought of what Sloan would say were he to be in this class. I tried to go get a drink in hopes this would settle things, but all I could think about was how I was ponying around a room with old people while the chick in the leotard said things like "Really work those hips!" and "Make it spicy!" Really. THAT IS WHAT SHE SAID.

I did get a good workout from Zumba. But is your cardio workout supposed to make you want chips and queso?