Tissue Anyone???

Every Wednesday at 6 p.m., I'm at the gym torturing myself getting my Zumba on.  Sweating like a whore in church, I'm shaking and squatting and kicking and jumping and all kinds of other things that I'm too damn old to do but I do so I can eat cake.  And each Wednesday, I'm running about five minutes late.  Well, that's actually every day but who's counting?? 

But on Wednesday, my daughter has dance until 5:30 p.m.  In another county.  Getting to that  6 p.m. Zumba class without harming anyone is a miraculous feat all on its own.  But I get there.  Usually I'm still putting on my shoes and socks when I race through the door.  Clear the way, folks, I've got to get my Zumba on!

Today was no exception.  Well, that's not exactly true.  Today I was about three meltdowns shy of homicide.  My daughter was tired and irritable.  And impossible.  She didn't want to wear her ballet shoes.  She didn't want to dance.  She didn't want to go home.  She cried.  She screamed.  As 50 people watched.  Another fabulous day in the life... 

My blood pressure was through the roof by the time I dropped her off at the house prior to going to the gym.  All I could think was how a good work out would keep me from drinking the poisoned Kool-Aid.  Or feeding it to one of my kids.  (just kidding, folks...  Keep the authorities out of it, k?!?)  I grabbed my shoes and socks and made a run for it.  I did, at least, dress for the gym before dance class.

Like I said, I was about five minutes late.   

They're still doing the warm up.  Yes, it's not nearly as crowded and no one is in my usual spot.  Life is good.

Until the warm up was over.  squat...ball change...  UH-oh! 

Something wasn't right.  Something was moving around in my shorts.  I couldn't explain it, but something was definitely going on down there. 

Then it dawned on me.  In the midst of all the chaos, I stuck a tissue in the waistband of my shorts.  My sinuses have been crazy.  I blew my nose, but had no place to dispose of the tissue.  I just stuck it in my shorts.  And completely forgot it was there.

Now, I was jumping around and gyrating like Elvis, and that damn tissue was working its way down in the panties of my Nike shorts. 

Shit!!  What if it falls out onto the floor while I'm mid-squat?  How will I explain tissue falling out of my nether regions?!?!  Jesus tapdancing Christ! 

There I was in a room full of people.  I couldn't just reach down into the crouch of my shorts and pull out that tissue.  And if I went to the restroom, I'd lose my Zumba momentum.  I mustn't burn anything less than 400 calories. 

Single, single, double... 

The tissue was definitely down in the, um...well...um, southern-most region of my shorts.  I was on the verge of a freakin' heart attack just waiting for that shit falls out. 

Kegel exercises, LB.  Practice your Kegels.  Punch, jab, punch, kick...  How the hell can I squeeze and kick at the same time?!?!   

As I continued to Zumba, I prayed that the tissue would stay put.  I was on the damn front row, for crying out loud!  It's bad enough those young girls have to watch my 45 year old ass grind to "Fergalicious."  Can you imagine how the sight of flying objects being released from my private area would affect them?!?!?  I don't think there's enough therapy in the world to heal the scars created by that scene.

If I were a boy...  *Beyonce's cool down song* 

Praise Jesus!  I made it!

I don't know how I did it, but I was able to keep that tissue locked tight in my panties.  By the cool down, it was fully lodged between my butt cheeks.  It completed a full rotation. 

That's when I had an epiphany.  A light bulb moment, if you will.  It finally occurred to me why Nike put those little panties inside their running shorts.  You don't get that feature from Adidas. 

The Old Mare

Getting old sucks!  I know I talk about it ad nauseam, but, for crying out loud...it DOES!  Furthermore, I'm sick of women like Demi Moore doing the rest of us old hags a disservice by looking like a 20 year old.  Courtney Cox, too, dammit.  Those tricks have money and airbrushed photos on their side.

What do I have???  A damn aching back!

Because I buy into all the 40-is-the-new-20 hype, I am literally killing myself at the gym.  High impact Zumba three days a week, Hip Hop Abs once a week, and some cardio kickboxing when I can fit it into my schedule.  Hell, I didn't work out this much when I was 23 years old.  Which, by the way, was when I looked my best.  I was fit, tan, and half-nekked most of the time.  God, I miss those days.


Back to reality, heifer!

Oh, yea...  Well, now I've got this 40ish (just not ready to embrace the new odd number which is my current age) body stuck in a 20-something time warp.  I keep thinking if I work hard enough I can have my old body back.  I've yo-yo'ed all my life gaining weight and then losing weight and then gaining and losing it again.  No biggie; drink a few Slim-Fast shakes for a week and watch the pounds disappear!

That's what my under-developed brain thinks.  The overly mature body knows otherwise, though.

On Tuesday, I came home from Zumba feeling rejuvenated.

Uh-huh.  Look at you, LB!  Won't be long now, girl, and you'll be looking gooo-oood!  Sure am glad you saved those bikinis from 1998.  You're going to need them this summer.  Sex-ee, little Mah-muh!  Get in that shower, Hot Stuff. 

*insert record scratch here*

I bent down to pick up my wash cloth and was quickly jerked back to reality.  All the sudden, I felt this horrendous pain in my lower back.  The pain ran from all the way down my left leg.  I wanted to cry.  I did cry.  I was able to stand upright only after hobbling over to the sink and pushing myself up with my arms.  Once up, I could not go back down.  I couldn't sit; I couldn't bend.  I was stiff as a board!  (ADD moment #593 - Do you remember playing "Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board" when you were a kid???  I loved that game.  We'd play that and have seances.  We were creepy little girls, now that I think about it.)

What the crap is that all about???  When I told my OB about it, he said "Oh, quit all that jumping around.  Just buy yourself some comfortable shoes and walk."

Translation - "You're old as dirt, LB.  Get yourself some black orthopedic shoes, some high-waist, elastic pants, and walk the mall every day like the rest of the geriatric community does."

Thanks.  Shoot me now, and send me off to the glue factory, please.  I'm done.

Quality Time with My BFF

With a husband and kids and a mortgage to pay, it's hard to find time for myself much less time to have good, healthy relationships with my girlfriends.  I suck at phone conversations, and I'm not very good at making the occasional G.N.O. a priority.  My friendships are primarily formed and maintained by proximity.  If they are in my face, they are on my mind and in my loop.

Before my friends get too fired up, "Whoa, Nelly!"  I do have some of the absolute BEST friends in the whole, wide world.  God has blessed me with some amazing friendships.  In every phase of my life, there were some incredible friendships involved with my fondest memories.  Friendship and girl-bonding are very important to me.

When I'm down in the dumps, my girls keep me from drinking the poisoned Kool-Aid.  When I need to borrow a dollar for my morning Coke Zero on a day when I ran out of the house without my caffeine, I know I have a friend to hook me up.  When I dye my hair pineapple yellow on the day before school starts, my girlfriends are on the 4-1-1.  Seriously...my Besties are the best!

I have to tell you, though.  My best friend, Harriett, and I have a very weird relationship.  We don't talk on the phone because texting is far less time-consuming.  We don't "do lunch" except when we happen to have the same lunch schedule at work.  I probably saw her less than a handful of times over our summer break.  We don't spend time together because our schedules just don't allow it.  Yet, our bond is pretty tight.  We have one very strange interest that keeps us thick as thieves.

We diet together.  Swear.  That's what we do.  That's what we talk about. She gives me tips on what to do at the gym.  Her husband is the master slave driver who orchestrates the whole thing, but she and I keep each other accountable.  I know that if I'm about to hit the Dairy Queen, she can text me down.  Her having to keep me straight (because I'm the one who's always looking for a loophole and chocolate) helps keep her straight.  It's a win-win. 

We are both consumed with our weight -- how much we've gained, how much we've lost, how far away we are from our college fighting weight.  Some weight loss "techniques" we've pondered?  Wiring our jaws shut, getting deathly ill, using meth until reaching our ideal weight then have our families call in a professional interventionist, using Alli with Depends (for those uncontrollably explosive bowels), anorexia, bulimia, in-home liposuction machines from eBay...the list goes on and on.  Literally.

Don't worry; we aren't doing any of it.  It makes for good conversation and lots of laughter, though.  I'm pretty sure if we didn't diet together, we'd still be friends.  The dieting is the "hook," but the laughter is what keeps us BFFs.

Oh, I need to text her now.  I think I lost 3 lbs. this week on the chicken and asparagus diet!  She'll be proud...or she'll want to stab my eyeballs out.  

The Y Just Ain't My Scene

I am such a freakin' brat!  I've grown up quite a bit over the years, but I can feel Hollywood Bitch trying to express herself these days.  I call my bratty side Hollywood Bitch because that was my nickname growing up.  Well, my cousins called me "Hollywood," but I know what they meant.  Omarosa ain't got shit on LB!  I put the D, the I, the V, and the A in DIVA.

Anysnottybitch, I have been nagging my husband to death for a pool.  I want my own damn pool in my own backyard!  Our kids are getting older and fight too much love to swim.  We need some recreation around this junk!  What better way to survive the sweltering summers of West Tennessee, right? 

Think of Hell with a bonfire going at all times.  That's a Midsouth summer. One hundred gazillion degrees.  In the shade.  All day long, I'm sweating like a whore in church.  Ain't no way on God's green earth are you getting me outdoors from June 1st to September 1st.  That is, unless there is some nice, refreshing, cool water close by.  I. WANT. A. POOL. AND. I. WANT. IT. NOW! *insert clinched fists and foot stomping here*

Mr. OCD-I-pay-the-bills-and-we-are-broke says, "no."  He's such a party pooper!  I wasn't happy, but figured I'd compromise.  Here's the deal...If I'll wait another year, I just may see a sparkling oasis in my very own backyard.  I have to wait, though, something I've never been very good at.

Fine, then.  I'll just join the Y!  The kids and I can go to the pool every day!  Besides, they have babysitters...um, I mean...lifeguards!

I was almost giddy just thinking about it.  I could workout while they stayed in the childcare room.  Then we could hit the pool!  It actually sounded better than I'd expected.  Until this morning.

First, it took me like an hour to get our shit gear together!  I packed swimsuits.  Check.  I packed sunscreen.  Check.  Floats, goggles, towels.  Check, check, check.  Since it's a bit of a drive, I packed lunches and snacks and water.  By the time I was finished with that, I was exhausted.  Not to mention, the kids fought the entire time.

Finally, we got to the Y.  I checked the kids into the nursery then hit the gym.  Disappointment.  At my other gym, there are little TVs on all the cardio equipment.  This equipment was in a large room with several TVs turned to various channels with subtitles.  I was bummed, but found a bright spot in the magazine selection.  It was nice to read a chick magazine, something I only do when getting a pedicure or waiting in line at the grocery store.  Before I knew it, I'd done 30 minutes on the elliptical and learned about a few "super foods" at the same time.

I thought, okay, this is not my ideal gym setting but I'll manage.

Afterwards, the kids and I hit the pool area.  With lifeguards (yippee!!!). 

I know why they need lifeguards now, though.  There were forty thousand kids in the damn pool!  Seriously, they were all over the place.  Not a single cubic inch of the pool was vacant.  Made me a freakin' wreck!

Not this bad, but you get the idea...

In addition to all the screeching kids, there was a "Mommies Club" to contend with.  Great, I thought.  I hate playing nice in an effort to fit in. 

All the mommies sat poolside with their chairs lined up together.  They all wore similar black tankinis and had similar looking children with nice little tans.  The moms wore big floppy hats and nibbled on Triscuits.  The kids grazed on apple slices and drank from little juice boxes.  I was in Stepford Hell.  I was in no mood to "play" so I found a nice chair in a corner away from them.

Of course, Stepford Hell was a far better place than the Redneck Riviera on the other side of the deck area.  The moms on that side of the pool weighed in the rotund range.  As the swimsuits they sported weren't bad enough, a few were tatted up with the most heinous of all tattoo art.  One woman actually had what looked like a portrait of the Insane Clown Posse on her left leg.  I saw barcodes on the neck, homemade monograms on the shoulders, crosses and religious memoriams on the back.  It made me long for the Mommies Club Rush parties.

Who'd put this on their leg?!?! Her kids are probably serial killers in training!

No commentary needed here...

The Y just ain't my scene.  I may have to pull out my sex trick arsenal.  Daily blow jobs for the rest of the year???  I dunno, but Mama really, really, REALLY needs a swimming pool!