B-Baller

I had a great aversion to organized sports as a child and made it my business to become invisible during game days in gym class.

If we were playing dodge ball - and we always were - I would cower in the back of the court until my number was up, hoping against hope that I didn't get hit in the face, chest, or rear. These were by far the three biggest danger zones, but strictly speaking, there is no graceful way to exit a dodge ball game.

During softball season, I was the kid picking flowers in the outfield and praying that the ball did not come within a ten foot radius of my person, lest I be forced to catch it or, more horrifying still, decide where to throw it next.

Soccer was the most benign of the sports evils because you could stand around looking vaguely occupied and pre-emptively skedaddle when the ball started heading in your general direction.

The P-Dawg, who spent his youth league years hiding in the broom closet, also confirms having had a great disdain for organized sports.

Which is why we were both surprised to find that the little V-meister has been dreaming of becoming a baller and dying to join the junior Lithuanian basketball league which meets in the church gym on Saturday afternoons.

If you've never had the opportunity to watch a group of five and six year-olds play basketball as I did yesterday, I would highly recommend it on the basis of entertainment value alone. The aspiring athletes did fairly well with the dribbling, passing, and blocking drills, but things started falling apart about thirty minutes into practice when the scrimmage game began.

There were about three kids who actually knew how to play, and the rest of the motley crew traveled up and down the court on their periphery, like electrons spinning around an atom's nucleus. Every once in a great while, a proton or neutron would accidentally gain control of the ball, and then one of two things would happen:

1. He/she would stand paralyzed until someone came up and plucked it clear out of his/her hands.
   
   
2. He/she would take off running in the wrong direction.

For us parents watching from the sidelines, it was excruciating. Periodically, you would hear someone screaming instructions like, "PASS IT! PASS IT!", "Other way! OTHER WAY!" and "Take your hands out of your pants!"

The V-meister, for her part, was an enthusiastic though cautious participant, running up and down the length of the court on the exact same trajectory (just inside the sideline), but never attempting to take control of the ball or receive a pass. Whenever her team scored, she would shout "Yea!" and do a little jig. Every once in awhile when playing defense, she would remember what Coach Cliff taught her about blocking and randomly stick her arms up in the air - never mind the fact that there was no one from the opposing team, or any team, anywhere in her general vicinity.

But she loved it. She has advised us that she wants to play again next week, and is requesting that the P-Dawg install a net in our driveway so she could practice every day.

I'm proud of her. Basketball is the most entertaining and least offensive of the ball-centric sports.

Still, she must have gotten a recessive gene.



(I was too busy screaming from the sidelines to take any pictures of the game, so here's a random gratuitous V-meister shot, just for the heck of it.)

Golden Sneakers vs. Silver Fins

I am in the race of my life against an elderly woman at the local YMCA.

We have a family membership there, and I work out every Monday afternoon while the kids are at their art/music/play/doesitreallymatter? class.  I have just enough time to sweat out about thirty minutes on the elliptical before grabbing a shower and returning to pick J-dog and V-meister up. Generally speaking, my Monday afternoon drop-off/workout/pickup regimen is a well oiled machine.

Now it seems there is a senior aquatics class  - the Silver Fins - wrapping up right about the same time as I'm heading for the showers, of which there are only three.  And for the past few Mondays, I have had to wait in line for twenty minutes - sometimes more! - while the Silver Fins slooooooooooooowly rinse off.  It puts quite a wrench into my Monday afternoon schedule.

"This week," I told myself, "the game is gonna change."  So on Monday I cut my workout short by five minutes and, with the Chariots of Fire theme song playing in my head,  made my way towards the shower room like a bat out of hell.

Readers, I arrived in the nick of time, just as the first of the Silver Fins posse was inching around the corner.  Breathless and red-faced, I hopped into the center stall, did a quick victory shuffle, and turned the water on. 

But, soft! What hand through yonder shower curtain breaks?

"THAT YOU IN THERE, KAREN?" (One of the heftier, tattoed Silver Fins has violently ripped the curtain open and poked her permed head inside.)

Me, scrambling to draw curtain shut: "Nope! Not Karen! I'll be done in a minute, though, and thank you for respecting my privacy while I finish up!"

Silver Fin: "Oh, I didn't see you sneak in there, hon!  You know, I always take this stall because it's the roomiest.  The gals call it 'Gertie's* stall', heh heh, because it's mine.  You snuck in on me pretty good, there! Well, I guess I'll just sit here for a spell until you're done.  "

The remaining two showers in the room were empty, but Gertie pulled up a stool, planted herself directly in front of the stall I was in, and started humming.

Now, usually I'm in and out in five minutes, but you know I took a forty-five minute shower that day.

(Actually, I just stood under the stream doing a whole lotta nothin' since in my haste, I had forgotten to bring soap and shampoo.)

When, in my estimation an appropriate amount of time had elapsed, I turned the water off and, taking great pains to adjust my towel just so before exiting, waltzed out with head held high and never looked back.

Next week I'll have to truncate my workout by another five minutes to ensure that I cut Gertie off at the pass.  But it's a wash (a WASH!) in the end, on account of all the extra calories I plan to burn in the race.

*Probably her real name

Girl, You Know It's True

The P-Dawg once told me that doctors know we lie to them. There is even a formula of sorts for gleaning the truth out of answers to questions such as, "How many drinks do you typically have per week?" ("one or two" = "three or four") and "Are you using birth control?" ("Yes" = "No")

Shocking.

I had my annual ladyparts checkup a few weeks ago. Just as my physician was preparing to exit after our three minute encounter, I pulled out a scroll with a bulleted list of discussion items for the two of us to review at leisure. One thing I wanted to interrogate her on was the potential for a new medication I'm taking to cause weight gain. (It has already dissed my blog and killed off my houseplants.)

Rimarama: "Just a few questions before you go! The internet told me that I could totally blimp out on this drug, even though the manufacturer's label says otherwise. Have you seen this happen with your other patients and if so, please comment."

Doctor D: "Are you getting regular exercise?"

In my head, I tallied up the number of times I'd walked out to the mailbox during the last month, and then I said, "Uh . . . yeah! Totally!"

Then, in her head, the good doctor plugged my answer into the formula and said, ""If you don't watch it, you have the potential to gain forty pounds and NEVER TAKE IT OFF AGAIN. But keep up the diet and exercise! And go get that baseline mammogram I recommended last year."

Thus I began a strict exercise regimen which includes a rigorous cardio workout nine three days per week and the contortion of my body into gravity defying Pilates poses on the days in between. I've been doing this for about a month now and I've actually gained two pounds. On the other hand, if you tried to punch me in the stomach, your fist would crumple like a tin can.

(And if you were to ask me how often I'm exercising, I'd tell you, "Every waking hour of the day, are you calling me a liar?")

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

Do you know what happens if you sign up for Jazzercise, attend a few sessions, then stop going altogether?

Sure, there's the muscle atrophy and the weight gain la la la, but that pales in comparison to the fact that the Jazzercise people just keep on charging your credit card every month. Even if you haven't stepped foot in their smelly old gym for almost a year.

And because of this, your husband will badger you until it gets so that you can't even have a normal conversation anymore without the subject turning to Jazzercise:

Rimarama: "Top o' the morning to ye, P-Dawg! 'Tis my earnest hope that the new day finds you well-rested and in good spirits, yea, forsooth."

P-Dawg: "Did you cancel your Jazzercise membership yet?"

Rimarama: "I will do it on the morrow."

P-Dawg: "I've heard that before. How hard can it be to call them up and quit?"

Rimarama: "Tis a wretched chore, my lord. When first I endeavored to do the exercise of jazz, they gave unto me a scrap of parchment to render forth if a time came such that I was desirous to break free of the Jazzercing coil. But I LOST that slip of paper, P-Dawg, not two days forth unto the Jazzercising."

P-Dawg: "OK, so-"

Rimarama: "Plus, you have to show up in person during a regularly scheduled class, with your passport and firstborn! Also something about tap dancing and turning in an essay explaining why you are forsaking your cardiovascular health. It sounded worse than trying to get out of AOL, or even quitting the Firm!"

(Plus, you never know when the urge to don a unitard and shake your booty in the school gym will hit again.)

Well, last week I finally faced the music and worked up the nerve to go cancel. With the P-Dawg cheering me on, I pulled out of my driveway, drove across town, parked the Ramamobile, waltzed into the community center, and marched right up to the attendance ladies who were sitting at their little card table by the gym entrance, punching tickets and peddling their Jazzercise wares.

I was a woman on a mission, speeding bulletlike toward my target. I knew that if I wavered for even one second, the Jazzercise mafia would suck me in, convincing me to "just give it one more shot" and I'd end up inside that gym doing jazz hands to a Carly Simon song in my street clothes next to Velma of the velour pantsuit.

It was going to be of the utmost importance that I establish a no-nonsense "I will not take no for an answer" attitude if I was going to accomplish the dirty business at hand.

"May I help you?"

"Yes! I need to cancel my membership. I recently moved and it's been really hard to attend class at this location. Also my kid kept freaking out in the daycare room but I could never make it to the evening class on time because my husband works late. But don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed the class and it's very unfortunate that I can no longer attend but OK, see here's the deal, I lost the little slip of paper, you know, the thingy you're supposed to bring with you to cancel? They told me I needed to hold on to that and, well, I totally lost it, but you can't really blame me because I moved and then we were living out of a suitcase with my parents for like two months and I really hope it's not going to be a problem because-

"Just sign here."

"Oh! OK! Do you need to see my credit card?"

"No."

"Really? How about a drivers' license or state ID?"

"No, just the signature is fine."

"OK . . . I could write an essay explaining the reason for my cancellation! A brief synopsis, if you will."

"No, just the signature."

"Huh. I'm guessing you don't want to see me tap dance."

(silence)

"Okey-doke, then . . . (signs name with flourish.) Wow, that was so much easier than I thought it would be!"

"No problem. You could have just called."

Readers, I turned and walked out with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. It was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders and placed directly back into my wallet.

Except . . . now the weather's turned cold and speedwalking is out of the question, I need a new means of maintaining my cardiovascular health. I'll be frank - the treadmill bores me to tears and I do have a tendency to lose my footing. And if you say, "You could always jump rope in the privacy of your living room," I'll mess you up like I messed up my pot roast.

No, what I could really use is a Wii Fit, and Magpie's got one to spare.

I need a Wii Fit because it:

• Won't subject the little J-dog to the horrors of the daycare room
• Won't auto-deduct from my bank account
• Could care less what time I show up for class
• Won't charge me for missed days
• Is way cooler and more up to date than Jazzercising
• And it sure as heck won't put me through the wringer if I ever decide to break up with it. (Which I totally never would.)

Oh! Would that I had one!

I Dodged the Bullet

The V-meister and I were flipping through a family photo album earlier today when I was seized with a maniacal compulsion to point out one shot in particular where I was about six weeks along with the J-Dog.

Me: "I'm dying to tell you how babies are made!" "See this one here? J-dog was just a tiny speck in my belly then, waiting to be born!"

My Head Voice, clucking: "Bawk! Baaaawk! Say, 'uterus'! Baaawk!Chickensh1t!Baaawk."

V-Meister, peering at the photo: "But why was he in there?"

Head Voice, beeping urgently: "Danger, Will Robinson!"

Me: "Well, did you know that before we come to live here on Earth, we live in Heaven with God and we have, like, invisible bodies called 'souls'? When it's time for us to be born, we go from living with God to living inside our mamas for awhile, where we grow bodies around our souls until we're ready to come out into the world. Because, you see little V-meister, you need a body to live in the world!"

Head Voice: "Wow. That was deep, Sylvia Browne. What kind of superpowers do these invisible bodies have?"

V-Meister: "But how do the babies get out of the mamas' bellies?"

Head Voice: "Uh-oh . . . Say, it, b1tch!"

Me: "Through a little hole called uh . . . uh . . . a 'vuh-jay-jay' 'vagina.'"

V-Meister: "Oh."

Me: "Any more questions?"

Head Voice: "Are you retarded, Rimarama?"

V-Meister: "But. . . why do the babies have to come out of a hole? Why can't the mamas go up there and bring the babies back? Maybe God could put a little bit of glitter in His hand and rub it around and then say the magic formula so the babies could come down here. The babies shouldn't have to come out of a hole."

Me and Head Voice, in unison: "Ain't that the truth."

V-Meister: "What did you say, Mama?"

Me: "Well, there's no actual glitter involved, but the way it happens is kind of like magic. It's . . . a miracle!! The Miracle of Life!"

Head Voice, making choking noises: "Gag. me. with. a. spoon."

Me: "Hey! Let's go watch TV and eat candy!"


Fin.

Wii - It's Better than a Commodore 64

I'll be honest: Every time I read a post about somebody Wii-ing it up on this new-fangled video game system the kids are playing nowadays, I say to myself, "Sounds fun, but . . .

1) "Is it postworthy?"

and

2) "Could it possibly be better than playing Frogger on a Commodore 64?"

We were at a friend's house for a party last night and there was a commotion in the basement.

I went down to investigate, only to find myself smack dab in the middle of a heated Wii tennis match between two Lithuanian immigrants.

So engaged were they in the action being projected onto a vast expanse of basement drywall, that they barely noticed the assembled children making bunny ears and various other shadow figures in the middle of their virtual court.

Never one to miss out on the action, I challenged my friend V to a match.

The gymnastics and harp lessons my parents had me enrolled in for all those years?

What a colossal freakin' waste of time.

Turns out that I'm a natural virtual tennis pro.

I picked this sport up with a quickness, my friends, and I never looked back.

I'll let you in on a dirty little Wii secret, too: the trick is to pretend as though you are actually playing real tennis on an actual tennis court.

Go ahead and hop around the basement, shuffle to and from the virtual net, swear like a trucker, and rock that virtual sweat visor.

This is the only way to win.

I probably don't have to tell you that I creamed the pants off my friend V with my powerhouse serves and deft backhand volleys.

Except for the negligible two or three times when my visual-spatial judgment failed me and I collided with the wall, my form was impeccable and the calories burned were most likely on par with what I would have worked off if I were, say, Jazzercizing with a hangover.

And I would still be in that basement now, running in place and yelling at the screen like a pint-sized female version of John McEnroe, were it not for the unfortunate fact that I accidentally whacked the little J-dog upside the head with my virtual tennis racket when he crept up behind me in the dark, bringing the evening's match to an abrupt close.

The P-Dawg and I are now conducting our home search around the singular criteria that there must be a wide enough expanse of drywall in the basement for us to stage nightly Wii tournaments.

Getting Rid of the Junk in Your Trunk is Damn Hard if You Recycle

When the P-Dawg came home from work yesterday, I was sitting at the kitchen table, dejectedly staring out the window and eating potato chips.

"What's up, Rimster?"

"Man, I am sooooo depressed. I went dress shopping for D's wedding today and, holy crap, nothing fit! I got junk in the trunk, P-Dawg!" said I, shoving a mouthful of Dan-Dee rippled potato chips down my gullet and chasing them with a swig of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

(My situation necessitated emergency caloric fortification in preparation for the diet I planned to start the next day. Because there was rather a lot of trunk junk, to be honest - a whole slew of empty Ben and Jerry's pints, some Reese's chocolate peanut butter egg wrappers, and possibly even a couple of crushed beer cans. I was headed straight for an SUV in the pants.)

P-Dawg tactfully assessed it with a quick sidelong glance and said, "Don't worry, Rimster, your a$$ isn't that big. Pass those chips, please."

***********************************************************************************

I freely admit I have been eating more and moving less all winter.

It's been difficult to eat well since the P-Dawg, trying to recoup the twenty pounds he's lost over the last month as the result of his snore-no-more surgery, is now eating like Renee Zelwegger before her starring role in Bridget Jones' diary.

You may already know that I've been loathe to go back to Jazzercising after the J-dog's December freakout in the day care room. But what really sealed the deal was when a friend told me that when they start slacking off at her BodySlam class? The instructor bellows, "WHAT DO YOU GUYS THINK THIS IS? JAZZERCISE???"

(I have to admit that, at times, Jazzercise did seem a bit too easy. I mean, when the blue haired lady with the walker and the housedress doesn't even break a sweat while doing crunches to the sounds of Simon and Garfunkel, you kind of have to wonder.)

So, now that the weather is finally turning here in the frozen tundra, I've decided to hang up the crazy stripe leg warmers and leopard print leotard in favor of a J-dog approved exercise regimen: walking.

This morning, after dropping the V-meister off at school, the J-dog and I set off on a long walk over the hills and dales of our 'hood. I even weighed my pockets down with a bunch of rocks all Virgina Woolf style, having long ago read in some stupid baby magazine that this was a sure way to crank it up a notch while strollercizing.

(I am also deathly afraid of dogs, and felt that the rocks could double as ammunition if I were to find myself duking it out with the Rottweilers two blocks over.)

We had a nice long walk, even though, when all was said and done, I ended up chucking all the rocks out, piecemeal, onto my neighbors' lawns.

Not in self-defense, mind you. They were heavy and anyway, after about twenty minutes of vigorous walking, I felt sure that I was back to a size four already.

Indeed, I was feeling so good about my workout, that immediately after dropping the kids off at my parents' house for an afternoon of grandparent sanctioned Krispy Kreme and apple juice freebasing, I swung by H&M and bought myself two pairs of capris in the next size down.

Which I was able to squeeze into before lunch if I peed first and lay down while holding my breath to zip them, but not so much after.

Nevertheless, I have full confidence in my new fitness plan, and I'm feeling better already!

So much so that I might even kick back with a celebratory ice cream sundae tonight after the kidz are in bed.

I Come From a Land Down Under

I'm short.

Not freakishly short, mind you, but short enough that I've contemplated disabling my driver's side airbag, just in case.

During my tortuous school days (when I was short with a boy's haircut, braces, glasses, a weird name, and plastic hoop earrings), it used to really get me down.

"Dear God, it's me, Rimarama. Please let me get my period before Dawn Bachmeier, let T.J. Trumpower like me and, even if we don't get married, please make it so that he asks me to the Howdy Dance. And Dear God, please let me grow at least four more inches in Jesus' name, Amen."

I'm a bit more comfortable in my skin these days, but every once in awhile somebody will come along and burst my bubble.

Like today at Jazzercise.

(I left the J-dog with my parents, in case anyone is interested.)

I was minding my own business before class got underway, practicing my deep breathing exercises and copying the warm-up stretches the lady in front of me was performing in a nonchalant "I do this all the time" kind of way, when I noticed the girlfriend to my left was checking me out.

At first I assumed she was coveting my totally kick-ass leopard print leotard and crazy stripe leg warmers, but after a time, she turned to me and said,

"How tall are you? Because you are NOT five feet tall!!!!"

(Fur bristles, talons release. Engage Rimarama fight mode.)

Because excuse me? Did I forget to take down the sign on my back? The one that sez I'm "FIVE FOOT FOUR AND FULL OF MUSCLE" ????

For what other earthly reason could this person be so interested in whether or not my stature reaches the highly esteemed five foot mark?

Rather than karate-chopping her a$$ according to my first instinct, I gingerly turned my head to face my attacker.

(Gingerly, because it's almost Christmas and plus, I woke up with a touch of vertigo this morning. Word to the wise: vertigo and Jazzercise, not a winning combo. Post for another day, my friends.)

"Just barely and not quite, why do you ask?" I said brightly.

I sized her up and that's when I saw it.

Girlfriend and I were at eye level. She was just as vertically challenged as yours truly, except bigger boned, if you will.

(But I knew I could take her down, if need be, 'cause I'm full of muscle.)

But no harm, no foul, my friends!

It turns out she was just happy to meet a fellow shortypants.

We bonded.

"How old were you when you finally got to ride Space Mountain? OhMahGah, me too!!!!"

"I think Ann Taylor petites have changed their sizing scheme, the bastards."

and

"Were you in love with Michael J. Fox?"

Now we're Best Friends Forever.

Or at least for Jazzercise.

Exercising is Not for the Faint of Heart

So, I think I may have to throw in the towel on the Jazzercising.

I've attended the morning session three times now and left the little J-dog in the adjacent child care room each time.

Instead of looking up, things are getting progressively worse, and yesterday just might have been the last straw.

The little J-dog is on to my game by now, and sensed trouble from the moment we arrived.

He tried to escape while I was filling out the sign-up sheet and was all the way out the door and halfway down the hall when I caught up to him.

He was hy.ste.ri.cal. Not in a "ha ha" kind of way.

It didn't help matters at all when I went to get his sippy cup of milk, only to find that all six ounces had spilled inside my purse (Damn you, Gerber.)

I considered just going home.

But, I let the other mothers there convince me that he would come around, he just needs to get used to it, how many times has he been here? Etc., etc.

So I walked around with him a bit more, hugged him, kissed him, told him I'd be right back, and then I left.

This time, the safety gate was up, but that didn't stop little J-dog from trying to scale it while screaming, "MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!" after me.

Yeah, we were both crying by then.

I peeked in on him about twenty minutes into the class (without him seeing me).

Still crying.

I gave it about ten more minutes and came back to get him.

He was actually NOT crying the moment I happened to walk in, but he looked like a wreck, with red rimmed eyes and hair molded into an entirely new dried up snot 'do.

So, what should I do?

The other mothers there told me to keep coming back, sometimes it takes awhile for kids to come around, but I can't bear the thought of it.

I mean, he was desperate in there. Desperate, I tell you. How can I possibly force him to go back?

My mom told me to give it up, that I shouldn't expect him to tolerate it, he's only a year and a half old, he's not used to the environment, what are you gonna do?

Which kind of makes me feel selfish for having attempted it. It's something I want to do, not something I have to do.

Advice?

Sorrowful J-Dog, Sinking Santa

Perhaps you have been wondering why news of my beloved Jazzercise class has not been forthcoming?

It's because I haven't been going ever since I signed up for the monthly automatic credit card deduction payment option (naturally). The P-dog pointed this out when he saw our last few credit card statements, although I am reminded every morning when I try to zip up my jeans.

(Incidentally, I did not drop the ball on my bill paying duties, it's just that the P-dog gets nervous when he sees unopened billz laying around the house. He feels compelled to pay them, even though they are probably not coming due for a good day or two.)

I also haven't been going because the classes are in the mornings and I've been dreading leaving the J-dog in the in-house child care room. I just KNEW he would flip out. I kept picturing myself happily bustin' my Jazzercize moves, only to have the class interrupted when my hysterical toddler is brought to me by a stern and frazzled babysitter.

But I finally sucked it up and went today. I have to give the little guy credit - he fared pretty well, all things considered, and the nightmare scenario I had envisioned, in which I do side kicks with the J-dog attached to my lower extremities, did not play out.

He was playing quietly with a little Tonka truck when I came to retrieve him after class, although the sitter told me that he had cried on and off the entire time.

When he saw me, the little dude began sniffling/hiccuping again out of the sheer trauma of the memory of being left to fend for himself in a room full of toys and snacks for the last forty-five minutes while I exercised in the next room over.

The sitter gave him a jumbo pretzel stick as a consolation prize and I swear he is already using food as a comfort mechanism because he shoved that pretzel down his little gullet practically whole, all the while staring me down with the most doleful and accusatory look.

You will pay for abandoning me by standing helplessly by while I inhale this choking hazard, Mother.

I can only assume he was using that pretzel stick to fill the mother shaped hole in his little toddler soul.

In other news, my mom called me up this morning to let me know she had somehow misplaced the unopened envelope containing the name of her Secret Santa giftee. She had already called all the other members of the family to see who they got in order to glean the name of her person by process of elimination, and needed to know who the P-Dog and I were buying for.

It turns out the name she had opened on Thanksgiving and wanted to pawn off was actually my grandmother's pick.

It's unclear at this writing whose slip of paper Grandma was passing around the room on Thanksgiving Day, but it will be a miracle if everyone gets an actual gift on Christmas.

The irony is that this whole Secret Santa gift exchange deal was my mom's idea. And of course, the P-dog is disappointed that the fact he picked his own damn self has been blown out of the water.

Finally, I'd like to warn you all to steer clear of Bulgarian honey. I just had some in my nighttime cup of chamomile tea and it tasted like an old tire full of stale rainwater and maybe a used syringe or two.

Move Over, Jennifer Beals

Did you know that Jazzercise is still around? I was under the impression that it had gone the way of moon boots and parachute pants until a friend of a friend was talking about how much she luuuurves her Jazzercise class. My friend was considering a trial session and asked if I wanted to go, too.

And, because I would rather do my taxes or get a root canal or even crawl through the tunnel o' germs at Chuck-E-Cheeze than perform exercise of any kind, I said, "I would totally love to go!!!!!!"

I thought I could handle it if I went with someone I knew. Because I am an independent woman who doesn't need anybody to hold my hand when I use a public restroom or attend an exercise session.

So, even though I was totally dreading it, had not a stitch to wear, and was convinced I'd end up blacking out and sitting in the back of the gym with my head between my legs, I was willing to try it as long as the buddy system was going to be in place.

I know. Such a wuss.

But then D calls me at the eleventh hour to tell me she can't go and yadda, yadda, yadda, but of course, I am still welcome to go by myself.

BUT I CAN'T GO BY MYSELF.

D: "OK, then just call E and let her know we have to reschedule."

Me: "Um, can you call her?"

D: "I called her yesterday to reschedule for today, so it's your turn."

Me: "No, it's totally your responsibility to call because you're the one whose backing out."

D: "Can you please just call her."

Me: "I don't have her number." (lie)

D: "I don't have it, either (bold face lie), so looks like you're going. We can't stand her up."

Me: "I'm not calling her."

And it continued this way for a good ten minutes before my friend faked an incoming call just to get off the phone with me.

So I went.

And holy cow, it was so much fun! I can honestly say that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. No cold compresses, no paramedics, no inhalers were needed.

Look out, Jennifer Beals! Rimarama is in. da. house. And she's wearing Spandex.

There were a couple of close calls when I veered in the wrong direction during a gallop/lunge combo and entered the personal space of fellow Jazzercizers, but everyone was cool with it. We were a room full of women of all shapes, ages, and sizes, rocking out to Annie Lennox and shaking our booties like it was 1983.

And I'm going to go again. By my very brave self. And maybe I'll lose those last five baby pounds.

My only regret was wearing my hi-top Reebox with leg warmers, leotard, and a sweat visor, because wouldn't you know it, everyone else was in yoga gear.

Live and learn, my friends, live and learn.

The Jazzercising Facility