Hip Hop Flop

I got to the gym too early.  Unaccustomed to not having that 10 minutes of time spent dropping the littles off in childcare, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.  Studio A was empty and I wasn't about to just go in there in wait.  So I chose to walk laps around the indoor track which circles the perimeter of my entire gym-- passing by the basketball court, weight machines, spin room, and enabling 360 degree views of the glass walled Studio A in which I was about to take my first hip hop class.

Upon my first lap, I noticed a chalk clapboard sign telling me the teacher of the new hip hop class was named Jordan.  Great, I thought, that tells me nothing.  Could be a man or a woman.  With each lap,my anxiety grew.  Would I be the oldest person in the class?  The least coordinated?  The fattest?  Would everyone be wearing red and black ninja costumes, knee pads, and a silver pair of Puma high tops?  I recognize that these questions are stupid, given the make-up of my gym.  ACAC is one of 12 clubs in the country that is a certified Medical Fitness Facility as it has physical therapists, nurses, and doctors on staff.  My post bed rest physical therapy is what got me in there to begin with.  So there are all types at my gym--very large people, very young people, very old people who rock out on the arm bike and stepper machines, the skinny mommies whose spine I can see through their stretched out belly button (that I want to feed bacon to), and just regular people.  I choose to believe I fall into the regular people category.  If you disagree with me, please keep your mouth shut.  My favorite group of people are THE MEN.  By THE MEN, I am referring to a group of about 5 men in their sixties who work out together everyday.  They own the place.  All of them are relatively fit, pretty good looking, and know everybody. My buddy Jack is in this group and is a stud.  (Don't worry, Sloan thinks he is a stud too.  My friend Ann used to make fun of us because it seemed like Sloan and I were trying to "couple date" Jack and his wife.  We were--but they are out of our league.)  THE MEN are not here in the afternoon during hip hop class time; they hold court between 9 and 11am.  So I just circled the main floor and by my fourth lap my imagination had me wearing tap shoes and a bee costume amidst a sea of multi-ethnic breakdancers.

It does not help matters when I notice there are now people in Studio A.  And by people, I mean three men, in their early twenties, busting out a breakdance routine.  And literally, my fears are coming true--I will be in a class with a mutli-ethnic hip hop crew.  I can discern by the Madonna styled-head microphone that the black guy in front is Jordan, although I've decided to call him Twitch.  Oddly enough, convincing myself that the instructor is a So You Think You Can Dance all-star does not reduce my anxiety. The other two gentlemen I dub "Legacy" (because he is a Latino B-boy, duh) and "Asian B-Boy".  Great, I think, it's a veritable SYTYCD who's who in there.  Alex didn't really get injured, he's just  moonlighting as a ringer in my hip hop class.  Oh yippee, he is going from a worm to a helicopter move.  Booya.

So I stopped by the info desk and ask one of my favorite trainers, "So, Kelly, do you think I'm going to be the oldest, fattest, and whitest person in the hip hop class?"  She assured me that no, she loves the class and were she not literally having a baby tomorrow she'd be in there with me. (Sidebar--she is so fit that just days before I asked her if her baby was due in September or October.  False. She was 40 weeks.)
 
At this point, a gaggle of people have begun to congregate around the doorway of Studio A.  My shoulders begin to relax.  It seems I am not the only person to be a bit apprehensive about entering Twitch's Jordan's class.  When I recognize a girl who was in Peter Pan with my nieces, I begin to breathe.  I mean, she can't be more than 11 and her Mom appears less ready for hip hop than I am.  There are several Mommy and me kiddie combos.   And there is Napoleon Dynamite--a gangly teenage boy in glasses, black sweatpants, a wife-beater style tank that shows off his collar bones and ribcage.  He has thick glasses. He's the type of teenage boy whose largest parts of this boys' body are his knees and nose.  And he is wearing these super-weird shoes that have thick soles and then nothing in the arch.  (I've just spent an hour online trying to link up a pick, but seriously cannot find them.  But let me be clear, they were odd shoes.  Crazier than those running socks.)  I imagine a Mom convincing her awkward son to take a few hip hop classes in the hopes of him either building some muscle or becoming less dorky.  And just as I'm about to chuckle at my classmates, and think I've got this one in the bag, I remember that at least in the movie, Napoleon Dynamite has got the moves.  Big time. 

I position myself in the back right corner of the classroom.  In fact, I am almost in the closet with the bodypump stuff.  The fact that I didn't have to fight anyone for this spot shocks me.  And so, with a little Justin Timberlake cranked up, we begin to warm up.  It's your standard step to the left and punch your arm Billy Blanks stuff.  Just a lot of it, really fast.  I notice that the Asian B-boy's shirt, which looks very Ed Hardy-esque, says things like "Saved by Grace" and "The truth will set you free."  I want to fist pump him and say, "Hey, you know Jesus?  I know him too!"  So I quickly rename him Bboy for Jesus. 

Unfortunately, also during the warm up, I realize that I have chosen the completely WRONG thing to wear.  I was wearing this black Old Navy V-neck tshirt.  I forgot it was one of those super comfy shirts that seem to stretch as the day wears on.  They stretch even quicker when drenched in sweat.  Seriously, the neckline was growing every minute to the point that it might as well been called Flashdance class.  And you can see that, well, um, I have to wear two bras.  One blue sports bra over a regular one.  To lift the uniboob, you know?  The double bra means that basically my cleavage goes straight up to my neck.  Which is awesome.  Also, as my shirt begins to stretch, it starts sort of lifting away from my body.  I have to decide which to show--the bubbies or the belly.  I tried hiking up my shorts, but then I got a camel toe.  (Meanwhile, I'm still rocking out to JT while trying to avoid a wardrobe malfunction.  Ironic, no?)  In the end, I decided to pretend it was totally cool to show off your sports bra when it is blue.  My little nod to US Women's Soccer. 

After warming up, Twitch Jordan showed us the routine with the disclaimer that it would be perfect for all of the new people in the class as it had a slower R & B feel.  And I'll just say, the dance was pretty easy.  I actually was a bit disappointed in that.  I wanted to discover I had secret helicopter and head spin skillz.  But then I remembered that a gym hip hop class would not have difficult choreography or people wouldn't show up.  Which made me feel like a superior dancer to my classmates.  Which.  I.   Loved.

The only real difficult thing about the class was that after taking a decades worth of dance classes, I am accustomed to learning steps while counting 8.  I keep tabs on what step goes with what count, so that at some point, my body begins to associate the steps with the rhythm of the song and I can just sort of let the rhythm get me, a la Gloria Estefan.  Twitch taught us the moves according to the lyrics (which, admittedly would have been more helpful had he remembered all of the lyrics as most of the moves were just a sort of urban pantomime). 

I am eager to continue my hip hop classes, even if it does mean that I won't be learning how to helicopter or walk on my head.  I am, however, thinking that some silver Pumas may be in order.  'Cause nothing makes a grapevine look more hip hop than the right pair of kicks.

Back in the Saddle

You know it has been a long time since you've been a regular at the gym when they've thrown away your weights file.  (Our gym has sheets you fill out with all of the info and settings on the machine, you just pick them up, hand them to the attendant and they set all the weight machines for you and you can fly through the circuit.)  Sooooo....I had to start over.  Which was good anyhow as there was no way I could've lifted the weights that I used to.  In fact, I am taking today off from the gym (after going 4 days in a row) because I'm pretty certain that my right arm is injured rather than just sore.  And for my facebook friends that are looking for a post about my recent foray into Hip Hop classes, don't worry--there is a post in the works.  I just want to attend more than one class to see if Napolean Dynamite and B-boy for Jesus always show up.  (How'd ya like THAT teaser?!?)

But going back to the gym is almost more difficult than going to the gym in the first place.  First of all, we had to add Gracie to the membership.  And wouldn't you know that she flirted her way into being free and, oh yeah, they extended our membership 6 months for free.  (Yes. I'm concerned that she is already flirting her way to get free things from men.  So concerned that I don't have to renew my membership until November rather than June.) We did that in May so we could use the pool and get swim lessons, but it has taken awhile for me to get back into the habit of working out most days.

And the second reason it is difficult to go back to the gym is those looks from the trainers.  I hate the "Wow! It's been awhile" comments.  As I was  jogging  walking on the treadmill, my old trainer asked me where I'd been for so long and I actually told her I had a baby.  Which is not at all sort of true, right?  All that said, my favorite trainer is the only one who reacted to my return correctly saying, "Yeah! You're back.  It's awesome to see you."  And so I told her how we adopted Gracie and then Henry went through a not playing well with others phase that made dropping him off in childcare difficult, you know, your basic blame it on the kids excuse diatribe. (The honest truth is that I just got out of the habit after G came along and preferred sitting on the couch and eating Henry's potty reward M&Ms to working out.)  The lovely trainer cut me off saying, "Oh who cares why you weren't here.  What matters is that you're here now!  Let me know how I can help you get back into the swing of things, and please, bring a picture of those kids with you tomorrow."

I also cannot get over how one of my old work out buddies has become a tool and completely refuses to acknowledge my return.  I've taken to calling him Stay at Home Brad, because he is a stay at home dad, actually NOT named Brad, but since he's turned into a chooch, I feel totally cool with changing his name.  It is not like we were besties, but seriously, we have kids the same age, took spin classes together, often chatted while on the ellipticals at least 4 times a week for two years, and now he refuses to even acknowledge that I'm there.  Lest you think he just hasn't seen me, I have made certain that is not the case and have even spoken to him.   I think he may be too cool for me (which is actually an impossibility in case he doesn't know) because he has sort of accumulated an entourage.  Seriously, there were a flock of Mommies surrounding him and following him from machine to machine.  Add to this the fact that he was wearing those hip new running socks and has grown a beard and I kind of want to throw up a bit in my mouth.  Seriously--I'm all for getting new shoes and everything and I'm pretty sure that I've got close friends with those toe sock show thingys, but they look even stupider on men than Crocs.  I mean it is a pair of toe socks fashioned into Mary Janes.  Stay at home Brad, did you grow a beard just to convince yourself you are still a man? 

But we're back into the gym.  We're planning on being regulars.  Henry is addicted to Spider Mountain.  And I'm thinking that perhaps in a year or so I could soooooo get a pair of those running socks.  'Cause they wouldn't be douche-like AT ALL on me.  I could so rock those.

Looking to buy bon bons

If you are my facebook friend, then will have noticed one thing--I've been spending a lot of time at our pool. Specifically, I've been spending a lot of time poolside sans Henry. That's right, people, I drop my son off in our gym's childcare so I can lay out by the pool and read. I particularly like to call Sloan at while working on my tan. Mainly just to say, "Hey, I'm lolling about and you're not" which is usually met with the following reply, "So when you complain about how you slave away all day at the house cleaning and taking care of Henry, this is what you are referring to? Have you any bon bons to eat while you sit around and do nothing?"
In my defense, before I lay out by the pool, I do work out on the elliptical. This morning, however, during my work-out, I realized that I'm old. And to be truthful, I've never really thought of myself as old; I'm only 31. But as the college student working behind the programs desk handed me my towel, "Here you are m'am," it struck me--she obviously does not see me as the same age as her, like I do. And then, when I plunked my book down on the elliptical and cranked up my Ipod, I knew I was old. I did not turn on the TV, despite the fact that the middle aged (er, my aged) women next to me were watching VH1 and Bravo while flipping through magazines, Star and Rolling Stone. Me? Reading Girl With Pearl Earring. Listening to classical music. Who, except for old people and me, listens to classical music to work out? Perhaps I should look for an afghan to put around my shoulders while I'm out buying bon bons.
I do feel my lolling about poolside is well deserved. You see, once I'm aware that I'm closing in on my 2 hours and 15 minutes of free childcare per day that comes with my membership, I do go get the pickle and wrangle (and I do mean wrangle!) him into his swim diaper and trunks, sunscreen, hat and sunglasses. This task is made more difficult as the light switch for the bathroom is accessible from the changing table in the family bathroom, so half of this work is done in the dark as Henry likes to play with the switch.
But once Henry gets to the pool, there is no more lolling about. Many Mommies get to sit by the pool and casually talk to one another while their toddlers sit near them and splash about in the water or the fountains. Maybe once or twice their children venture into deeper waters, but they usually are frightened and so stay near Mommy.
Not the case with Henry. Henry likes to go the the edge of the pool and jump in. He counts "1,2,3" and then dunks his head under. He goes down on his belly and pretends he is a snake, hissing with his face in the water while I say, "Gross, Henry. Get your mouth out of the water." He does not get his mouth out of the water. He tosses his plastic truck ahead of him, laughing as he goes and gets it, essentially playing fetch with himself. He splashes me. I, in turn, show him what a real splash looks like. He laughs so hard I fear he'll throw up. We go stand under the water buckets and love it when the bucket dumps a lot of water on Mommy's head. He likes to show me how he can walk all the way across the pool (which has a beach entry and then goes to 3 feet). He goes up on his tippy toes and tilts back his head, laughing all the way across the pool. At which point he then pulls himself up out of the pool, Michael Phelps style. (No matter how many times I see him do this--it still amazes me. He is able to pull himself up out of the pool despite not really being tall enough to push off with his feet.) Then he proceeds to turn around, hop in, and begin again. Once he's done this four or five, or ten times, he then decides it is time to check out the perimeter of the pool grounds. He goes to play on the playground. Crawls under and climbs over lounge chairs, paying no mind as to whether there are people on them or not. He pulls out every toy from the lost and found and takes it to the water. Occasionally, he'll find one of the squat chairs right by the pool entry and sit in it. This excites me, so I sit next to him. He waits until I'm comfortable and then he is off again. He visits the lifeguard and gives him a fist bump. There are three lifeguards, so the fist bumping takes awhile.
This morning he even made a friend. His first friendship he has ever initiated himself. Sure, he's got loads of buddies--Isabel, Nathan, Anna, Loren, Colten--but all of these friends he has because I've basically just dropped him off at their house or they see each other at church. This friend, a 20 month old named Sam, Henry chose himself. This is how it happened. Henry has some toys for the pool--a couple of those squishy balls, some squirter animals, and a plastic truck. Well, Sam was playing in the fountain while his mom and grandma chatted to one another. Henry and I had just returned from our second round of "lifeguard fist bump" of the day and I pulled out our toys. Henry took one of his balls, looked at the boy, and said, "Hey, ball!" and then threw the ball at the boy. The boy did not really respond. So Henry took another ball, said, "Hey! Hey! Hey!" until the boy looked at Henry, and then Henry said, "Ball!" and threw another ball at the boy. The boy, in turn, looked at Henry and said, "Baseball" and threw the ball back. I told the boy's mom I wasn't quite sure what to be more shocked by--my son's friendliness or his sharing. I talked a bit with Sam's mom while our boys played with one another's toys. We're planning on meeting again at the pool later this week. The boys were very sweet waving bye bye to one another in the parking lot. I just hope I can remember Sam's Mom's name by the time we see them again.
Perhaps if I eat some bon bons it will jog my memory. Actually, I don't have bon bons. Do you think Skittles will help? I do so love to taste the rainbow, and I did work out today...

12 minutes 32 seconds

Is approximately how long it takes....

• For my nose to start running uncontrollably on my morning run.
• For me to complete one mile.
• For saying "Where's Henry?" and then "There he is!" over and over to get old while he covers and uncovers himself with a blanket in the jog stroller.
• For my Ipod to drop on the ground a total of three times and then begin to skip.
• For me to realize that "Paint it Black" by the Rolling Stones is the best song to run to EVER. But not when your Ipod stops it suddenly and then throws you into the Beastie Boys' "Sabatauge."
• For me to wonder how the Pinball Wizard really got so good. I mean, who can play pinball with their sense of smell?
• For the arch of my left foot to begin to throb.

And then, at about 18 minutes and 12 seconds...

• I realize that I haven't looked at my watch in about six minutes. (I check to see how long I've been running.) This is a world record.
• To contemplate walking. Because now the arch in my right foot is beginning to throb.
• Henry is mad that I'm no longer playing peek-a-boo with him because I can't talk.
• I become fully aware that I'm leaning into the jog stroller and without it, I not only wouldn't be able to keep running, but probably would die. Or at the very least, fall over and have to scream, "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up."
• Decide that I can keep running. I'll get home faster because now I've got to pee.

And, finally, at approximately 30 minutes and 34 seconds...

• The Beach Boys "God Only Knows" comes on. And I've just turned back onto my street. Wait a minute, I've just run 2 and a half miles. So I decide to start walking because I need to "cool down."
• Recognize that while I could run home, I can't walk. My feet hurt too much. And then there's the whole pee issue. And my calves are killing me.
• I can play peek-a-boo again. And when Henry sees our house ahead, he throws off the blanket with glee. I have to stop to pick the blanket up off the ground. I fall over. And just sit in the road for awhile. A neighbor comes to get her mail, so I make it look like I've just stopped to stretch. In the middle of the street.

Because nothing makes a statement quite like a squat thrust.

Someone at the gym today told me I was racist because I voted for John McCain.

It took every ounce of maturity not to yell at her, "Yeah--well you're ugly." (She wasn't.)

I'm still sort of shocked by this. For a couple of reasons. First, I'll admit that I'm overly judgemental, snobby, and sometimes elitist. But I tend to think I'm better than everybody. On the planet. And my pettiness is sinful. I recognize that and repent of it often. Because it shows me that I have an inaccurate picture of who I am, my shortcomings, and the amount of grace bestowed on me by God. That being said, I look down upon people for their clothing, behavior, parenting skills, hair-dos and the like. I don't judge people for who they are and who God has created them to be. So I take great offense to the lady in the neon running shorts telling me I'm racist.

The second reason I was offended was because I think it is insulting to Barack Obama. As if his only qualifying characteristic for the office of President is his race. I'm hopeful that even though he is not whom I thought would be best for the job, he is more than adequately qualified for the job through his service to country, leadership, charisma, and experience.

But the main reason I was offended was because it doesn't speak to the fact that no, I didn't vote for Obama, and if she really wanted to know why I would've calmly told her that I do want to "spread the wealth" but that I do that by tithing, volunteering, and donating to local charities. That I think blind charity, or government handouts, can be oppressive because how can you retain your dignity if you can't say Thank you? I also probably would've shown her the first picture I have of Henry. He is 8 cells big. And in a petri dish. And Obama co-sponsored a bill that would authorize the industrial production of embryos for use in biomedical research in which they would be killed all the while voting against using federal money in stem-cell research that does not involve the production and destruction of embryos.

But I didn't say any of these things to her. Instead, I showed my maturity, by saying "That black and red dress that Michelle Obama wore last night made her boobs look like they were on fire. And not in a good way." And then I dramatically put on my head phones and got on the leg press machine.

Gearing it up one level

I took my first spin class this morning. Despite my expectations, I did not die. I thought about it, but, quite frankly, I didn't have the energy to do it.

Spinning is very similar to having a baby. You can't feel your legs. You keep pushing because someone tells you. There is a lot of counting involved. You have to be remided to breathe. Being hooked up to fluids would've been helpful as I've had a dehydration headache all afternoon. And you just keep praying nothing rips "down there." And the soreness in your hoo-ha lasts.

And lasts. And I even borrowed one of the gym's gel seats. There were people in the class without gel seats and I'm quite certain they have crotches of steel.

About 5 minutes into the class, I wanted to die. And all we'd done was warm up. I was certain that I wouldn't make it another 45 minutes. Beth, the instructor, tells us that there are five ways to climb this hill and we're going to do all 5. I'm confused, because I see no hill. And also we have to keep tabs on our cadence so we're going to count for 15 seconds. She tells us to be somewhere between 20 and 27 for fifteen seconds. But that we'll thank her later if we are between 20 and 24. I shocked myself by being 24 at my first cadence check. But then we "geared up one level" (aka cranked up the resistance knob) and after 2 minutes--more counting. Down to 22. Apparently, I was supposed to "commit" to that number and stick with the pace, despite the fact that I was going to "gear up" 4 more times. By that 5th hill, I was pleased to still be peddling at all and registered an 18. Oh well. My hoo-ha hurt to much to peddle any faster. And I was busy concentrating on breathing, the sweat pouring off my body, and trying to peddle with my feet parallel with the floor. I did not do a good job with the parallel thing because my toes kept going numb. And oh yeah, after class did we mind signing a release form because the gym's photographer showed up to take pictures for next season's brochure. Awesome. I'll be the sweaty one trying not to die in the back.

And sometimes I got confused about the handlebars. When you are 'running with resistance' or 'jumping' or 'really getting at that hill' you are standing up. This is great because it gives your hoo-ha a break. But apparently, you are not supposed to be using the handlebars as a fulcrum to take weight off your jello jiggly legs. Beth reminds us our hands our for balance and asks us to raise them up to check to make sure we weren't cheating. Mmmm, yeah, not so much. I could do the jumping without shifting my weight, but that was about it. (Jumping is just standing up, peddling a few times and then sitting back down. And oh yeah--sitting down is getting "back in the saddle.") And don't even get me started with the darn toe clip thingys that popped off half-way up a hill. I had to readjust them and I almost fell off the darn bike.

But all in all--I'm pretty proud of myself. I'm going to start "spinning" every Wednesday during the morning class. I may even get my own gel seat. Or some of those fancy shoes some of the others were wearing. (I just love it when sports have their own cute shoes!)

In the wee small hours of the morning...

My body is betraying me. It is making me into someone I never thought I'd be. It is making me wake up early to work out. Ugh. I'm becoming an adult.

Last night I took Henry on a walk around the neighborhood. While pushing the stroller I sensed the need for speed. I felt my body saying "Elizabeth, it is time to start running."

I'd read that the best way to begin running was to use interval training. So I decided every 6th minute of my walk around the hood, I'd run. I tried this out last night, but after about 30 seconds, I almost killed myself and my son. For starters, I don't have a jog stroller. I quickly learned there is a reason that jog strollers have breaks and don't put their wheel locks on the backs of the stroller. I was going down a hill and trying to keep my pace but was also trying to keep up with the stroller. As I did this, I accidentally stepped on the stroller's locking mechanism, making it stop dead in its tracks. I slammed into the stroller, almost knocking it over, and Henry's sippy cup catapulted out of his cup holder and began to roll down the hill. My Ipod fell and as I was bending down to pick it up, I knocked my water bottle from the carrier at the top of the stroller onto Henry's head. So my first lesson of running is that I might not be coordinated enough to do it.

This morning, knowing I had a full day ahead of me, I woke up at 6am (yawn!) to see if I could tackle this running thing on my own. I learned more lessons about myself, my running, and this whole exercises thing. Apparently, walking without pushing a stroller is confusing to me. I don't know what to do with my arms. Do I pump like one of those power walkers at the mall? Letting them dangle felt awkward too.

Also, when you are exercising in the wee dark hours, it is a different neighborhood. Used to seeing ladies walking their dogs or pushing strollers, I was suddenly the lone girl amidst men. Men biking and men running. Women may be from Venus, but the men in my neighborhood are from somewhere weirder than Mars. There was the one man who looked like he was still in his pajamas riding a bike. A little too nonchalant about exercising for my taste. Then the guy on the opposite end of the spectrum--complete biking garb with matching water bottle and helmet. And then there were a couple men running, shirtless and in basically a shiny loin cloth. And while I have no problem with them not wearing a shirt (Hey, I plan on running around the neighborhood in just a sports bra one of these days, say 60 pounds from now), but please, gentlemen, can you buy some running shorts that are a bit longer? I'm covering my wobbly parts and I would appreciate you doing the same. Men running do not wave to women walking. They throw the peace sign or salute. Do I look like a hippy or a soldier? I was wearing addidas shorts and a pink ZTA t-shirt. And around 7 I got to see all of the high schoolers walking to Monakan. When did skin tight jeans on boys become popular? And apparently it is not just my nephew Anderson who loves his cologne. High schoolers also do not wave. They do not even hint that they see you, even if you are only three feet away and say hello. Not even a nod.
But back to more about running. Serious undergarment issues. And it makes my entire body hurt. I hurt my shoulder running (is this even possible?). And my tendinitis is acting up again. My feet and ankles have been throbbing all day, so I'm going to get some new shoes. But the major problem is that after about 45 seconds of running, I'm sucking wind. At the end of the minute, it was all I could do to keep walking and not just bend over and try to catch my breathe. I'd like to think that maybe I've made it 30 years without knowing I have severe asthma, but I'm pretty sure I'm just being overly dramatic. And oh yeah, I was thirsty, but didn't have a stroller with a cup holder with me. And when I ran, my Ipod fell off my pants and I stepped on it and once again almost ate pavement. I ended up having to keep taking it off and putting it back on every five minutes. (Remember, my Ipod is 4 years old. It is what they call a 40GB "classic." It weighs about 17 pounds.)

So I'm not so sure about this running thing. I'm wanting to run my college sorority's 5k in Chapel Hill in the spring, but I also kind of think that maybe I should just walk the thing and not kill my body.

More than anything, I missed the stroller and the little guy in it. I missed one of my little secret treasures of motherhood--being able to talk to yourself under the guise of speaking to your child. And I missed Henry talking back to me, pointing at every barking dog, barking back at them, and shrieking at the passing school buses.

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.

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?

Canned Heat in my Heels

I love the gym. Inspired by a friend, I'm determined to become one of those people who just has to exercise everyday. (And I would like to add that the fact that this friend is an old high school girlfriend of Sloan's has nothing to do with it. Honest. I genuinely like the girl. Maybe I'm growing up. Maybe...) And I've been doing pretty good with the working out. Okay, maybe not everyday, but, on average, 4 times a week. Considering I used to tell people, "If you ever see me running--Duck!--there is someone chasing after me with a gun." I'm not a runner--I've got tendinitis and plantar faciatis in both feet and well, how do I put this, running gives me serious undergarment issues. And the possibility of black eyes.

But it is not just the gym I love. It is my gym. It is basically a cross between a YMCA, a country club, and Wet N' Wild. I love that they know my name and Henry's name and that there is even a 3 year little boy named William that gets excited whenever I drop Henry off at the nursery. They play trucks and cars together. Oh, and did I mention that I love that I get 2 1/2 hours of free childcare a day. But with the advent of the nursery, Henry has been getting sick a lot more lately. I feel we are well on our way to getting tubes. I have very mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I want to never go back there and shelter my son so he never gets another ear infection and he doesn't have to get tubes put in his ears. I call this the "good mommy" approach. On the other hand, what good is having a tubeless little boy with an unhealthy mommy? Going to the gym makes me healthy, boosts my self-confidence, and I'm pretty sure is putting me on the path to sanity. I call this the "selfish mommy" approach.

You could argue that I can work out at home and not put H in the nursery. You're right. I can. But it is just not the same.

Working out at the gym is controlled. Monday, Wednesday, Friday it is weights and cardio. Tuesday and Thursday just cardio. I put on my Ipod and do 3 reps of 12 on the health quest circuit and various other machines that promise to give me rockin' abs, no touching thighs, and arms that would make Angelina Jolie jealous. And if I time it right, there's a Zumba class after that. If not, then it is to the elliptical.

Oh the elliptical, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. For starters, I can ride you Lionel Richie style (All night long) and my feet will still feel glorious. My thighs and butt may be on fire, but my feet love the way you sway and stride without them ever leaving the ground. You have a television. I can watch reruns of Project Runway, the Today Show, or, if I'm really lucky, Neil Patrick Harris guest hosting on Live! with Regis and Kelly. You let me see where I am going. I can watch the little blipping lights that tell me when the resistance will increase or decrease. I can crank it up a notch if I'm really wanting to feel the burn, or turn you down with the simple press of a button if it starts getting a little to real. You give me so many workout choices--manual, cross country, hill climbers 1, 2, and 3 (!), interval, weight loss interval, and you'll even give me a fitness test should I want one. You let me see how long I've been working out and at the press of a button you'll tell me how much longer I have to go. You even let me know just how cardioriffic I am by taking my pulse and telling me how many calories I am burning. You help me to burn 400 calories in 30 minutes. You even hold my water bottle for me.

And all this happens in air conditioning.

Working out at home does not work like this. I've been putting Henry in the stroller and walking around the neighborhood only to find out that I am a bit unbalanced. And not in a "Oh, girl, You so crazy!" sort of way. But an uncomfortable silence and give me the name of your therapist sort of way. For starters, the other day I almost died. I decided instead of just going around the block over and over, I'd do a loop that was about, I was guessing, two to two and half miles. Mmm, yeah, not so much. After walking about an hour where my feet are killing me and the hills just keep coming with no warning at all and even when it looks flat the road isn't level I realized that I wasn't even close to where I thought the road was looping back around. See, this is the problem with walking. Once you realize you've gone too far--you've still got to turn around and get home. So I just turned around and came back. No loop. I kept hoping someone I knew would drive by and I could chuck the stroller in the back and just Britney Spears my baby in my lap what I assumed were the 47 miles back to my house. But alas, no one came by. And sweat was dripping into my eyes after mixing with sunscreen and it was 95 degrees by this time. (I'd planned to be home before it got really hot in the middle of the day, but instead, I'd taken myself and my baby into the bowels of the Stonehenge neighborhood). By the time I saw my house in the distance, I grew weary trying to figure out who was at my house in my parking spot only to have it slowly dawn on me that it was my car.

This morning was much better on the loop, but still not as good as my elliptical machine. I looked up on mapquest the loop. In total, the loop is 3 and a half miles. Completely doable with that knowledge. Horrific when I looked up the address for the house where I turned. Yep, I was.....wait for it..... 3/4 of a mile from my house when I turn around. So instead of being home quickly having walked 3 1/2 miles--I walked a total of 5 1/2 miles to my near death. This knowledge is both aggravating and hilarious. I decided to do the loop backwards, so the landmarks would be more familiar. Yeah, I got to the turnaround house in about ten minutes and felt like a giant boob.

But the not knowing where I am going isn't the only reason why the elliptical trumps walking in the neighborhood. Let's talk about heat and humidity people. ACAC is air conditioned. Midlothian is not. I've got sweat pooling in between my boobs and dripping down my back into my nether regions. And it's dripping down my face. Stinging. This morning, I rocked a twisted bandanna to keep the sweat out of my eyes. Let Olivia Newton John know I'll return her look when I'm done getting physical. I looked awesome. That's not crazy--that's a fact.

But you see, I like to sing. And dance. I put on my Ipod and I rock out. ROCK OUT, people. I don't have this problem at the gym, because there are people all around me to remind me how to behave. Walking in the neighborhood it's just me and Henry (who thinks I am the best singer and dancer in the whole wide world) and the occasional car or dog walker. And those occasional passersby get their money's worth. Chicago comes on and I can't help but belt out about Saturday in the park (I think it was the 4th of July). And did you know that I know pretty much all the words to the entire soundtrack of Rent? My neighborhood does. But as if the singing weren't bad enough, I dance too. And we're not talking just the white boy head bob. Jamiraquai came on and there were some moves stolen from a one Mr. Napoleon Dynamite. At one point, I had to let go of the stroller to twirl. I twirled. I reached up in the air as if to catch a star. I pointed my toes. On Smoketree Drive.

Oh, Lord, pray for my son's health. I desperately need to get back to the gym.