My daughters have gone exercise crazy. Seriously. From the standard YMCA fitness machines to the latest craze, Zumba, they have embraced it all with more zealous than Sean Penn has for Hugo Chavez.
And, of course, they want to drag me along. So far, I have managed to resist (mostly by hiding in the closet or not answering my telephone when they call). It’s not that I don’t want to be fit. I do! I really do! And, when they find me a class that offers HD TV and Ding Dong breaks, I’m totally in and ready to squat/jump/shake my booty/etc. Until then, my plan is to stick with the Sit and Be Fit Class on PBS. SABF is the only enjoyable exercise routine that I have found so far. It takes only a few minutes and I can participate while sitting on my butt on my overstuffed couch with my Diet Coke, cigs, and Kroger Red Velvet cake on a nearby table.
It’s not that I have never joined a group of obese overly enthusiastic people women with good intentions of dropping that last ten pounds of baby weight (OK….what if my youngest child is of voting and drinking age?) and fit into a pair of sleek, tight Baby Phat (haha..I made a pun) jeans. I have done my share of jumping jacks, rolling on off around on an exercise ball, and yoga stretches. I use to be one hellova hot and fit mama. These days, though, I’m fairly satisfied to be a luke-warm earth mother. And, who wants an earth mother whose ribs stab ya when you lay your head on their bosom for comfort? I mean…COME ON!…it’s my turn to be the fat-but-jolly friend/sister/mother/neighbor/etc. I’ve served my time in front of 86 lb instructors with long blonde hair held in place by a fashionable sweatband and names like Rain or JuJu.
TrailerParkSkipper has joined a kick-boxing class and keeps urging me to join her. Hmmm….NO!
I’ve actually taken kickboxing classes. Brutal. Inhumane. And, stinky. Never in my entire life have I experienced so many gassy woman. Yes, you read that right. Gassy as in farting. There has to be something about hitting a bag with all your might and then instantaneously turning 180 degrees to kick the same bag that releases farts. Whatever the cause, it manifest itself while doing the kick-boxing stretch warm-ups and cool-downs, too.
I remember, vividly, my first class. I went with TrailerParkMidge who was just starting junior high. We took our places on the floor. I looked to the left of me and saw a woman who looked very much like Paris Hilton. I turned to the right and lo and behold, there was a Kate Moss look-a-like. I wondered how long they had been in the class and how much time it would take me to resemble them. Actually,to be real about it, I wondered how many kick s and punches it would take me to look like a much larger version of them.
Those bitches! Skinny and lithe! I hated them. I loathed them….until they started FARTING!
“poooooot” “pfsssst” “fffffftttttt”
OMG….Kate and Paris were regular pootie-tooties!
At that minute, I felt happier than I had in a long time. With every turn-and-kick, “Paris” made pootie sounds. And, “Kate” was emitting the kind of sounds that 10 year old boys make blowing on their arms during detention to amuse their fellow detainees. Week after week, the Farting Duet made kickboxing bearable for me. They both smelled like rotten poultry and I may that sweating like a ho’ in church but at least, I was not gassing everyone around me. I think it was their diet of bean sprouts and carrot juice that turned their butts into a heavenly choir of poots and toots.
“rooty-toot-toot”
One week, the fashionable farters didn’t show up for class. Then, the next week, they were absent, too. I inquired about their absence and the instructor told me that neither had renewed their kickboxing fees. So, I quit, too.
Hmmm…..maybe, I’ll have TPSkipper check for squealy participants in her class. If she reports that there are some in attendance, I might just join! Afterall, I do still have my gloves.
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