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Monthly Archives: March 2013

I Get My Ass Kicked. Again.

I Get My Ass Kicked. Again.

There’s an instructor at my gym who makes me feel like a fat rat running with a team of ferrets. Stacy. She is a hard ass, who works your ass off. She has worked her own down to a nub. Just thinking about her makes my muscles quiver.

It had been months since I took her class, but just like you forget labor after enough time passes, such is case with Stacy. Yet, the minute I walked into her 8:30 am Sculpt and Burn, I knew it was a mistake.

The girls were far too perfect. The risers on their steps too high. Their body weight too low. And the music RPM was on crack.

We began the warm-up. No simple marching here. No sir, we go right into jumping jacks with weights. Seriously? I peed my pants after the first one. I mean, come on, jumping jacks and weights? Did none of these girls have babies?

I semi-followed along, wishing I had chosen a spot closer to the door so that I could scoot out unnoticed. But no, I hid myself in the far corner and now I was stuck – stuck doing squat jumps with weights. I really am not coordinated enough to combine aerobics and weights and move to Oh Mickey. I think that for the future health of my body, nay, for the future health of the world, these things should never be mixed.

The only thing I could do was hopefully make it till the end of class without passing out or slipping on my own sweat. To distract myself, I concentrated on all the women in front of me, who looked like a bunch of fitness models. Oh look, one of them is taking off her long sleeved, hot pink over shirt. With the blasting music and the hair flip, she looks like a combination ad for Victoria Secret and Gatorade. Victorade? Hmm. Is my brain all shook up or is that a good idea??

I look at the clock. Only 20 minutes have gone by?! Ugh!

I’m panting and dripping, and I’m fascinated that everyone is just doing this class. How? Wait. There’s a girl behind me who is completely backward. We go left. She goes right. We go up. She goes down. Yay! I’m not alone. At least I’m going in the right direction. Ha ha.

We switch to some kind walking side lunge, with weights of course. Stacy doesn’t even alert us to the change. She just does. Apparently, if you can’t keep up, you don’t belong. Don’t say it.

I look at the clock again. It’s only been 4 minutes since the last time I looked?! Gaaa! When are these side lunges going to end?!

As if reading my mind, Stacy literally tosses her five pound weights across the floor, and without wasting a hyper second, she reaches for the eight pound ones and starts up the Jacks again.

Ugh! I didn’t mean it. I want the side lunges back! My boobs are about to make a guest appearance out of the top of my sports tank, as the elastic has long ago stretched beyond repair, kind of like my abs.  I do a behind me mirror check. Yup, uncoordinated girl is still…uncoordinated. Whew. My misery does love company. I’m a little embarrassed with myself.

Mid jump, a poster girl for Lululemon just stops to add a matching headband to her already pony tailed hair. A moment later, she pulls out the pony tail, shakes her long blonde locks and re-ties it. I don’t think she’s even sweating. I look in the mirror at my own pony tail. It is a messy, pineapple bun tilted sideways on top of my head, hanging on for dear life, just like its host.

No! Not burpees! My nemesis. Come on! Down, out, jump. Down again. At least, there are no weights. Okay, I think I can. I think I can! I’m doing it. Yes! I look at the mirror during my jump up, but there’s only one person jumping in sync with me. Yup, it’s uncoordinated girl. The shame.

We move on to climbing man interspersed with push-ups.

I’m puffing and huffing and praying to be put out of my misery. I suddenly remembered I used to call her SS Stacy, short for skinny, sadistic Stacy. I’m having flashes. I start dreaming about a cup of coffee at Dunkin Donuts. I know I look spastic or drunk, but I might be about to pass out. It must be almost over. I look at the clock.

OMG it’s only been 8 minutes since I last checked!

I’m going to die here…

ass kicked 2

Play dates or Pre dates…?

“Mommy, we’re going to play in here. You stay out!” orders Julius, my five-year old with my four year-old niece Layla, standing behind him like muscle in a pink tutu. 

They are in my seven year-old son’s bedroom looking extremely cute and extremely suspicious.

“Hey, not so fast Bubs. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Stinky Pants.” My niece pipes up with the softest, sweetest voice. Think Snow White on helium.

“We’re just playing puppies, Mommy. Now go way!”

He almost pushes me out the door and then those extremely cute little rats move to shut the door in my face. Well, that’s not going to happen. I place a firm hand, stopping it. “Puppies, the door stays open. No shutting the door. Okay?”

“Okay!” They are just a few years short of rolling their eyes, but their “okay” is dripping in barely concealed superiority and irritation.

I give them a warning look, but it holds no bite, they are just so damn cute.

I leave them to play and walk into my bedroom to fold laundry. Giggling and hushed voices are my music. I fold a few shirts but their giggling is so giggly, I can’t concentrate. I sneak over and peer into the other room.

They are rolling around, like puppies, I guess. Or maybe like dogs in heat? I don’t know. They are innocent babies but still, it doesn’t look good. Yeah, we need to break this party up.

“Knock knock, little puppies!” I call out and walk into the room. “What’s going on here?”

Julius comes over, looking a little sheepish, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m ruining the game or because I’m ruining his game, if you know what I mean. “We’re just playing puppies.” There’s a sheesh that doesn’t verbally come out, but I hear it.

“Okay, but no more rolling over each other. I don’t want any puppies to get hurt.”

“Okay.” They nod, their curls bobbing up and down in unison.

I head back to fold the laundry, but I’ve got my ear on the other room. There’s some pounding and running round. There’s a bunch of laughing and then nothing. Quiet. Too quiet. I realize I’ve paired three pairs of socks and I haven’t heard a peep from them. Time for a check in.  I pad my way over.

Oh no.

Layla is laying on the carpet immobile, her shirt is somewhat lifted and Julius has his hand on her belly.

“Puppies!” I call out a little too loudly. “What is going on here?”

Julius is quick to explain, “She got hurt and needed to go to the puppy doctor.”

Of course. I mean come on, they’re in nursery, but still, I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. We’re a close family, but we’re not into kissing cousins.

they really are the cutest couple of cousins

The cutest couple …of cousins!

“Listen pups, how bout we head downstairs and I get you guys a snack. You must be very hungry puppies. Maybe I’ll make s’mores?”

That did it. Both puppies were up, wagging their tails and bouncing over. Once again, sugar saves the day.

Later, Layla is back home and my older pups come bounding in from the bus.

“Mom!” Michael, my second grader yells, dropping his backpack and heading straight for the phone, “I made a play date with Sarah and Gillian.”

“Both of them?” I ask, although I shouldn’t be surprised. Michael loves the ladies.

“Yep, they’re coming over.”

And they do. Two adorable, sweet and shy seven year-old girls.

Immediately, the three of them pound up the stairs to his room. Boom boom boom. Slam.

Sigh. Here we go again. With three boys, I’m sensing big trouble in the future.

I walk the steps slowly, preparing for my second intervention of the day. There’s that cute giggling again. And it looks like the lights are out in his room.

Big. Trouble.

“Who wants s’mores?” I call out and open the door.

Well, at least they’re not related.

Michael and one of his best gals. Trouble. Big.

Michael and one of his best gals. Trouble. Big.