Why Wine and Group Exercise Classes Don't Mix

So last night I was thinking about how much I love my kids. This is something I often do when it’s 10:00 pm and they’ve both been asleep for 3 hours and I’m lying on the couch watching Glee or The Bachelorette (I’m not proud) and drinking a big ole mug of herbal tea. I love them ALL THE TIME, but it’s just soooo easy to bask in the truly awesome glory of my love for them when they are both sound asleep and not fighting over stupid stuff (“Mommy! William has my cup! That cup has my germs on it! I want my germs baaaaaaack!”).

Now I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re probably thinking, “Liar, liar, pants on fire, that was a big ole mug of chardonnay you were drinking, not herbal tea.” And normally, you’d be right. But I’ve largely given up alcohol lately. Not for any dire reason like alcoholism, but because I absolutely, positively MUST MUST MUST kick my own ass into losing some weight. And since fitting back into my whole entire wardrobe doesn’t seem to be motivation enough, I’ve decided to use alcohol as my incentive. For now, I’m giving it up. If—no, WHEN—I lose 5 pounds, I’ll have a nice glass or two of something to celebrate, then start the process over again.

 

Well, talk about motivation! The Bachelorette is just NOT the same without a teeny little wine buzz (OK, truth: The Bachelorette is just not that good without a teeny little wine buzz). So to speed the process up, I’ve also tried to give up my favorite crappy snacks and I’ve started (*gasp!*) exercising more.

Exercising more has not been as easy as I hoped it would be. It turns out I wasn’t burning many calories ambling along on a treadmill at the Y watching The View with no sound, so I turned to group exercise classes to get my butt moving a bit faster. I started by trying Zumba, but found that I looked like a chicken on ecstasy. Then I tried a Boot Camp class. That was much better. I mean, I still flop around a lot and I still find it’s better for my ego if I don’t look in the mirror much while I’m doing it, but at least I can do most of the moves without falling down. And, I sweat A LOT during Boot Camp class. I don’t mean that oh-is-it-hot-in-here? kind of sweating. I mean an embarrassing, you-can-see-the-outline-of-my-sports-bra-because-its-the-only-part-of-my-shirt-that’s-not-soaked-through-with-sweat kind of sweating. I figure that kind of sweating must equal about 9237598547 calories burned. Hooray!

As an added bonus, I’ve learned a few things since I started my Boot Camp class:

 

The first thing I’ve learned is who/what LMFAO and “I’m Sexy and I Know It” is. I had never heard that song until I heard it in class, and now I know for sure that it is both the absolutely dumbest AND catchiest song I’ve ever heard (sing it with me, “Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah!”). I hate myself just a little for loving that song.

The second thing I’ve learned from Boot Camp class is that there’s this Rihanna song about how “We found love in a hopeless place. We found love in a hoooooopeleessss plaaaaaaaaace” that will play on an endless loop in my head from the second I hear it at class on Tuesday morning until at least lunchtime on Friday. Just that one little part. Over and over and over and over again. I hate myself just a little for hating Rihanna because of it, but I do.

The third thing I’ve learned from Boot Camp class is what “Mountain Climbers” are. Mountain Climbers are what the Devil down in Hell does when he feels like he needs to lose a few pounds. You put your hands on the floor, stick your butt in the air, and alternate bringing your feet up to your hands over and over and over again. (Not coincidentally, we mostly do this to that damn Rihanna song.) I suppose this is something like climbing an actual mountain, but you can bet your sweet ass I’ve never done that. Anyway, they’re unflattering, hard to do, and I don’t much like doing them.

The fourth thing I’ve learned from Boot Camp class is that I do, indeed, have triceps, even though I can’t see them. I know they are there because every Wednesday morning I feel them burning when I do strenuous activities like lifting a coffee cup or brushing my teeth. Same with my quads. Can’t quite see them under their comfy padding, but every Wednesday I find myself wincing as I gingerly lower myself into a chair in the Y’s lobby to watch my son’s swimming lesson. People probably think I have hemorrhoids or some other horrible personal problem, but, no, it’s just Rihanna and her dastardly Mountain Climbers From Hell.

The final thing I’ve learned from Boot Camp class is that if I ever had to go to any sort of ACTUAL boot camp, like for the armed forces, I would probably not survive one day. I’m glad there are young, tough, and strong men and women who are willing and able to that and more so I can have the freedom to lie on the couch watching bad tv and eating M&Ms. Er, I mean, rice cakes. And kale chips. NOT ice cream or handfuls of Rosemary and Olive Oil Triscuits. Really. I swear.

Now will someone explain to me why I’m not losing any weight?

My Son Called Me A Whore

Yes.

It’s true.

A few months ago, my then-3 ½-year-old son called me a whore.

Well, sort of.

No, we weren’t on some godawful tabloid-y talk show like Maury or some equally horrible reality show like “Toddlers and Tiaras.” (“Toddlers and Tantrums” is more like it. Now THAT they could film at my house for sure.) And this wasn’t even an insult hurled mid-meltdown or hissed through gritted teeth during a timeout.

In fact, it probably wasn’t even intentional.

Probably.

Here’s what happened:

Matthew had become occasionally interested in drawing things other than scribbles. He moved into straight lines and circles, then decided he wanted to try writing letters. My husband and I were a bit wary of this. Matthew is, yes, of course, a genius and FAR advanced for his age in all areas—much like your kid, I’m sure. (*ahem*) But he also has a very low tolerance for frustration, and writing letters seemed like an activity RICH with potential frustrations. So we started slow. We taught him ‘O,’ which he pretty much already knew, then ‘M,’ because it’s the first letter of his name. Over a few days we taught him just a few more letters, mostly ones with straight lines.

One day, he came to me with a piece of paper and an insanely proud grin. “Mommy! I wrote something for you!” he exclaimed, as he handed me his masterpiece. Here’s what he gave me:

I oohed and aahed and tried to hide the fact that I was crying just a little bit. My son wrote a word! And not only that, he wrote “MOM!” Together we found some tape and hung the paper up on the kitchen wall where everyone could see it. I went back to trolling facebook, er, researching recipes online, and he went back to the playroom for more writing.

A few minutes later he returned. Same triumphant grin, another piece of paper. “Mommy!” he shouted. “I wrote you another word!” I looked down eagerly. What lovely sentimental message would my son bestow upon me this time? Here it is:

After my initial moment of shock, I oohed and aahed (though without the tears), then I tentatively asked, “Um, Matthew? What made you decide to write this word?”

“Mommy,” he said, “It says ‘ho.’” (That’s what his voice said. His face added, “DUH.”)

“I see that,” I said. “Why ‘ho?’”

“Mommy!’ (another “DUH” look) “That’s what Santa says!”

[Did I mention this happened around Christmas? Kind of a key detail in retrospect, I suppose.]

Before I could respond, he handed me the tape. “Hang it up! Hang it up!” he begged. How could I say no? So, Matthew’s second official written word joined his first in the place of honor on our kitchen wall, where everyone could see it.

. . .

And now, to apologize for using the word “whore” in this post’s title, I give you Matthew’s latest masterpiece.

Hubby and I secretly call it "Mutant Bird" because of the googly eyes.

What’s the latest cute thing your child genius has said to you?