Monday, April 24, 2006

Michelle The Maniac

Shame on all of y'all who did not believe that I would actually drag my VOLUPTUOUS patottie out of my soft warm bed at 5:00 am to make the 5:45 Jazzercise class on a Monday morning. I was and the roosters and those folks just dragging in from an all-nighter were awake, along with a few other bleary-eyed dawn dancers. I might not actually have made it, even though I woke up at 4:19 this morning. I made a deal with myself that if I fell back asleep before 5:00, I wouldn't have to get up. I did not figure in the Michelle factor.
When I first met Michelle, she was working in the Jazzercise nursery. You know how some people are just as sweet inside as they are beautiful on the outside? (A Melanie Wilkes--only not as mousey--not a Scarlett O'Hara). This was Michelle. Butter would not melt in her soft-spoken mouth.
Then, they gave her a microphone. That does things to people. I did not recognize this at first. When she called me at 5:00 (something Casey put her up to on account of I made the mistake of telling Casey that I really felt like God wanted me to go to the 5:45 class because I keep waking up at 5am for no apparent reason), it sounded like sweet old Michelle on the phone. She was all "Casey told me to call..I'm so don't have to come."
Well, of course I felt like I had to, even though I had just nodded back off. I mean, she was so nice and all. I would have felt like I kicked a kitten or something if I didn't go. She might have felt bad about calling, and she's sooo sweet...
Well, Sweet Michelle did not show up for class. On stage this morning was her alter-ego, Maniac Michelle. With a microphone.
Maniac Michelle is a mean woman. She had us doing all those hyper-speed songs that look like someone has a Jazzercise tape on fast-forward. It's hard to be quick when you're not fully awake. Well, hard for everyone but the Maniac. She had no trouble at all operating in overdrive. And she was perky, of course, and well, still beautiful, which is especially infuriating when it's still dark outside and you yourself have porcupine head and pillow case creases on your cheek.
After the fast songs, she did a series of demented pilates pretzel routines and then, the worst, push-ups. To an Elton John song. Y'all know I can't do push-ups--I've explained the whole gravity thing before. The only thing worse than push-ups, is push-ups to an Elton John song. I really don't particularly care for Elton John. Actually, I used to, way back in the Crocodile Rock era. But his newer stuff is just way too gushy for me.
The Maniac nearly killed me this morning, but she gets and 'A' for entertainment, which is, after all the most important factor in a Jazzercise instructor. Does she keep your mind off the fact she's killing you with her witty repartee, sarcasm, and general stand-up comedy routine? The Maniac was quite adept at all that, and she sang karaoke as well. She's actually got a great voice, for a maniac. And she had the courtesy to sweat with the rest of us. I just think it's so rude when an instructor doesn't break a sweat.
Anyway, I got my workout out of the way for the day, so I have a lot more time to write. Well, until nap time anyway...

Peace, out...

Friday, April 21, 2006

I Hate It When Casey's Right

Y'all might have noticed, but the whole 'being accountable to myself via blog' isn't working so good. This became crystal clear when, on the first warm day of spring I tried on last year's capris. Having been hanging in the closet for several months, they had, of course, shrunk a little. You know how fabric tends to do that, right?
So I laid down on the floor and wiggled (Official Jazzercise move) into the capris. Although it made a blister on my right index finger, I was able to get the zipper up. It was a short lived victory, however, because when I stood up, the part of my stomach that flattens out when I lay down came crashing through that zipper. This was not a pretty sight.
Time for plan B.
Okay, so next week I start Personal Touch. This is where I pay money for Casey to cause me great pain and agony and also monitor everything that goes into my mouth because quite a lot of stuff is apparently sneaking in there when I'm preoccupied with other things. It's a month into spring. My summer clothes don't fit. I am a desperate woman. Next week, I will be a cranky woman.
I will try to focus on how good being not-so-fat feels. I would tell you that I will focus on how good being thin feels, except I haven't been thin since I was five, and I really don't remember. Wait, there were a couple of years in high school when I was in size sevens (and some fives). But I still didn't feel thin. I have been obsessed with my weight my entire life and I am frankly bored with it, which is why I have started ignoring it and put some of the weight I'd lost back on. I guess I'll have to go back to being obsessed.
This morning I went to 9:20 Jazzercise and Myra committed an attempted homicide by Jazzercise. I think she's sneaking in a couple of extra fast songs, because there was one point right before we started cooling down when my arms were tingling and I was hallucinating. I could have sworn there were two Myras on stage. It was probably just all the sweat dripping into my eyes. I think Myra got tired , too, because she stopped dancing and said, "I like to watch." Right. That's what instructors do when they've worn themselves out. They stop to watch and make sure we're doing it right. We're on to that trick.
Anyway, I have an addition to the list of Jazzer-body parts: taillights. I bet you can guess what that is. Today, we kept our headlights up and worked our taillights off. Peace, out...

Thursday, April 20, 2006

What Did She Say?

Okay, I know that song lyrics are poetry, and much of poetry is very deep. So deep, in fact, that many folks (like, well, me, for instance), can't fathom what exactly the poet is attempting to communicate. I have a lot to say about writing that no one can understand, but that's a subject for another day.
Sometimes, understanding song lyrics is made much more difficult by the music itself. This annoys me, because I really like to sing along. I primarily do this when I'm alone in the car, so not to worry.
But this morning at Jazzercise--yes, I did go today--the lyrics in Wendy's set were particularly baffling. I would tell you what they were, but I'm sure I'd be infringing on somebody's copyright, and we can't have that. Suffice it to say that one of two things was going on: either you have to be on whatever the lyricist was on when they wrote that stuff to understand it, or, the songs were the kind you have to play backward to understand. This is my theory.
I think that all Jazzercise songs have subliminal messages. Yep, that's how they keep you coming. Some of them say things like, "Come to Jazzercise everyday or all your hair will fall out." Others--and these are the most dangerous--say things like, "Have a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte."
The latter type are the ones I have been most exposed to. Now, you might be thinking, why would Jazzercise songs have messages encouraging you to eat badly. It's not reverse psychology, although that could make sense. No, I think it's because if people like me keep sucking down those Mega Moo Mocha Moolattes, we'll always be, well, Voluptuous, and always need Jazzercise. For the rest of our lives. That's how they keep you coming back. It's just a theory. I guess we'll never know for sure, because I don't think there's anyway to play a CD backwards.
Anyway, a few followups: Yes, I know it's been over three weeks since my last post. You cannot believe how long the list of truly bizarre (but true) reasons/excuses I have. It's almost as long as the list of reasons/excuses why I have only been to Jazzercise an average of 2.18 times per week in the last three weeks. Excuses I have in abundance. But Today is a New Day!! I have Jazzercised and Posted. I will now write for a minimum of four hours, after which I will not reward myself with a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte. (Sigh).
Two New Jazzercise body parts I left out of the list I posted a few weeks ago: Left Head (Myra's), and Hiney (Wendy's--I almost named today's post after Wendy, because that one rhymes with her last name, but I thought better of it).
I have a clean bill of health--all the breathing tests, xrays (once they contacted the girl at WalMart and found where they had been misplaced--another story) were normal. The mysterious spot on my lung was apparently invisible to the radiologist who said a cryptic "Impression is negative chest xray" in his notes. Now, I'm not sure if I should get that second opinion my sister insists I need or not, because I'm not sure this guy knows what he's doing: As I have explained before, I definitely have a chest. How can I test negative?
I have a new refrigerator--the Kitchenaide For the Way Its Made folks and the Jeff Lynch folks brought me a brand new one when the six month old one could not be cured of Spontaneous Defrost Syndrome. They also gave me a check to cover some of the spoiled food in the freezer. I highly recommend Kitchenaide. On the rare occasion they make a lemon, they definitely provide you with free lemonade.
On another positive note, I have been writing a lot lately--one of the reasons I haven't gotten anything else done. I'm trying to get the changes and final polishing done on LCB in case I can interest anyone at the conference I'm going to in May in taking a look.
That's about it for to you tomorrow. I promise. Peace, out...