Just a Little Word about "Personal Space"

As many of you may know, I am the queen of Zumba.  The queen of Zumba who hasn't lost an ounce although she's been busting her butt for nearly a year, but the queen nonetheless.  Lately, though, I must confess that my attendance has been less than stellar.  Holidays and all...  Plus the fact that I HAVEN'T LOST AN OUNCE as of yet, but it's all about being healthy.  Right????  Bullshit!

So there I was last night.  In Zumba.  Minding my own business.  I was running a little late so I didn't get my usual spot.  No biggie; I got one close by.  Since I'm short and the instructor is too, I try for the front of the room.  Besides, in this particular class the crowd seems to gravitate towards the back of the room.  Since I often get claustrophobic in confined spaces, it's a win-win.  Right?!?!  I have plenty of workout area.  Normally.

Maybe I was just feeling overly irritated because I was in a rush.  Maybe I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed yesterday.  Maybe my Zoloft dosage needs to be increased.  Or just maybe someone needs to think twice about encroaching on my effn' personal space. 

Chicky rubbed me the wrong way from get-go.  I don't know why, but I decided that we weren't going to be best workout buddies from the moment I laid eyes on her.  I'm sure she's a lovely young lady.  Sweet and considerate.  Damn-near Mother Theresa-ish.  However, she was wearing skin tight blue jeans (camel toes and all), furry boots, and forty pounds of make up.  This is Zumba, heifer.  Not the club!  That's not all.  She was also sporting a tight low-cut tee with, get this, a regular freakin' bra!  Underwire and cleavage all over the joint.  Now do you see why I had the bad vibes??

Lucky for me, the only place left in the room was directly in front of Miss T-Pain girl.  Fine.  She's seems to be hanging towards the back with the other newbies.  I'll be fine.  So I thought...  Hell to the effn' NO!  Sister had about as much rhythm as a 3-legged elephant.  She was all over the damn places.  Legs and arms flailing around like a Pentecostal at a revival.  All she needed to do was start speaking in tongues and I would have gotten the heck out of dodge.

Instead, all I could do was be extremely annoyed.  Instead of flailing around in the back, somehow she'd worked her way up to where I was standing.  Two inches away!  I could count the beads of sweat hanging from her clumped mascara. 

At one point, I looked to find her standing right in front of me.  "How the hell did she do that??" I thought.  If it wasn't so damn annoying, it might have been funny as hell.  But I was irritable.  I wanted to kick her.  Hard.  Push her out of my way.  Out.Of.My.Space.DAMMIT!  Please!

Lord, I hope she's not there tomorrow night.  I'm not sure I can show as much restraint.

Not her, but you get the picture...

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.