Your Mama Can't Dance

For two whole weeks in June I went to the gym fairly regularly. If I had actually worked out while I was there, I'd probably see results. But seriously, one week I actually went three times and could have gone a fourth, but I didn't want to start any crazy precedents. The point is, I was trying. But then I took Zumba.

At 5:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays my gym offers a TRX class. I'm a big fan of this workout. It's tough, but not extreme. I'm sweaty when I'm done, but I don't actually pass out, so that's a good thing. The only problem with TRX is that the class fills up too fast, given that there's only room for 10. So this particular Tuesday I arrived at 5 p.m. feeling super confident about securing my place, but would you believe 5 was too late? All the spots were taken. My natural inclination was to call it fate and head home, but the woman at the front desk suggested Zumba. I told her I'm not good at Zumba. She said it was a beginner's class. I figured what the hell.

What the hell, indeed.

There's something about Zumba that makes it right for blog post abuse. Maybe it's because...

• I see Zumba as the new Sweatin' to the Oldies. Baby boomers don't want to admit that they've gotten older, so they take classes in which they dance to club music and shake body parts that have no business being shaken at this point in their lives. We are definitely NOT bringing sexy back in Zumba class. 
• Honestly, I think I actually bring down the class's median age.
• Zumba instructors, at least at my gym, appear to be misfits who aren't qualified to teach anything else. They're the only instructors who make me feel good about my physique.
• It's embarrassing. I completely suck at it, but I imagine that even if I was a pro I'd be embarrassed to have those who are "really" working out see me doing this silly stuff that should definitely be reserved for dark nightclubs where alcohol is being consumed.

So there I was in Zumba class. On the side closest to the windows overlooking the gym floor where the real working out was taking place. And naturally there were college-age women watching us with amused faces. And old men looking for a hip swinging honey to take home for the night. I smiled and waved. They moved on. That's how badly I was swinging and shaking. I tried to laugh it off as I improvised the moves, but no one laughed with me, which made me feel even more pathetic.

Obviously Zumba is not a real workout.
I look hot afterward! Or maybe that's just sweat. 

I was sweating and panting about 30 minutes into what I assumed was a 45 minute class. At that point I
decided to just tap my toes and swing my arms around. What difference could it make? Fifteen minutes later I realized that the class was actually 60-minutes long. So I did the only sensible thing. I left. I had developed a side stitch and a stomach cramp.

And would you believe my hip ached for a whole week afterward?

So I swore never again. But then Abby asked me to take the class with her. I figured it is every teen's right to see their mom do something ridiculous, and since I've never done anything ridiculous before, she had earned this opportunity. We went to Zumba together. The teacher was late. I was counting, praying we'd make it to the 15 minute mark when you're technically allowed to leave class. I later found out that that rule doesn't apply at the health club, where you actually can leave class any time.

Turns out our instructor was Alex. I assumed she was the same teacher I'd had a couple weeks earlier. When she turned up (under the 15 minute rule), she was a he. He is the teacher that kicks butt, literally, in Cardio Kickboxing. The class that I tried twice and gave up on. Second degree black belt, my ass. So when I saw Alex I groaned. Outwardly.

And you can guess what happened next. Or maybe not.

I loved it.

My skills weren't any better, but Alex was a much better instructor. And perhaps there was a small part of me that didn't want to appear completely ridiculous in front of my teenage daughter. So she and I still have that experience to look forward to. And perhaps we'll take a few Zumba classes together in the meantime.

Putting an End to the Nightmare that is Gym Class

Television, radio, websites and publications — in nearly every form of entertainment there is something that appeals to our individual interests, quirks and passions. There’s no reason to be like everyone else or even engage with anyone else when it can so easily be all about you. By immersing ourselves in that which fits our personality, IQ and emotional needs, we can be assured that no harm will come to our confidence, self-esteem or self-image.

With this in mind, three years ago in “Food for Thought,” I suggested that supermarkets designate lanes based on the kinds of food a customer buys. That way, those of us who purchase crap loaded with preservatives and artificial sweeteners won’t feel badly about ourselves when we’re in line with the organic health food buyer. I’m sorry to say that I have yet to see a grocery store implement this excellent idea. I can practically guarantee they’d enjoy an impressive customer base and strong sales.

Along those lines, today I would like to propose separate gym classes based on body type, athletic ability and basic level of fitness. And I recommend that these segmented classes begin as early as kindergarten so those of us who require remedial hand-eye coordination activities will not find ourselves ostracized during snack time. The reasons for despising gym class tend to vary from age to age and person to person, but the end result is always the same: emotional scarring, night terrors related to dodgeball and long-term aversion to anything physical.

For some, what they most loathe about the experience of phys ed is the actual performance part. Run a mile in 6:30. Finish 10 pull-ups. Catch this ball. Walk in a straight line. These requirements can be brutal and cause one to break out in tears hives at the mere mention. Others may not dread the activities so much, but find undressing in front of their peers is a fate worse than death. Are you as well “developed” as your classmates? Are you clean shaven? Did you forget today was P.E. and wear your Thomas the Train briefs? This is the stuff that keeps therapists in business. That, and our parents.

Personally, I still have nightmares about the choosing of teams in gym class. Who in the world thought it was a good idea to put a couple of kids (usually insensitive bastards athletes) in charge of picking teams? While you can try to blend in with a group of fellow gym class haters for the activities themselves, or disappear in a toilet stall to avoid comparing bra sizes, when you’re lined up against the wall for team selection there’s absolutely nowhere to hide. As each captain starts calling names and the wallflower lineup gets shorter and shorter, it’s basically the equivalent of someone shouting, “We don’t want Shimer! She’s the worst athlete ever!” I was usually chosen second to last, saved only by the significantly overweight kid or the one on crutches.  Good memories.

My simple solution, separating kids into appropriate groups, has the potential to be life-changing. Imagine no more…
• mysterious illnesses on gym class days
• terror at the prospect of playing dodge ball with the football players in your class
• standing alone against the wall like the girl who never gets asked to dance
• shame at wearing granny panties
• fear of ridicule when you fall over your own two feet at the starting line
• hyperventilating when you run out of air during those aptly named “suicides”
• concern that you’re overweight, underweight, undersized or oversized
• costly long-term therapy to address issues of self-esteem

With separate gym classes all kids can feel comfortable in their own skin. There will be no pressure to improve skills, get in shape, lose weight or talk mom into buying you appropriate underwear. Simply put, gym class, high school, and the world in general will be a kinder, gentler place. Now that's something worth cheering for!

Random Thoughts from the Gym

So in case you're wondering, the new job is going really well. I haven't cried yet! The people are very nice and no one has put my age after my name on my office nameplate. Of course, I don't actually have an office, or a nameplate for that matter. But still, I don't think they'd do that.

While I am happy at Villanova, I am disappointed to report that they're giving me nothing to work with in terms of blog post material. Therefore, in an effort to share something/anything, I offer you:

Random Thoughts from the Gym

The class I take most often is Body Pump which is basically a weigh-lifting class that hits every muscle group in an hour. It's an awesome class with mostly terrifc instructors except for the new girl. When I take class with the new girl I can't concentrate on my form because I'm always thinking about how much I'd like to slap her for her ultra chipper, annoyingly motivational, non-stop jabber. Plus, she's wafer-thin and no one needs to look at that for an hour.

I have another Body Pump confession: I will load more weight onto my bar than I can actually handle just so I look stronger than those standing around me. It goes without saying that this can have disasterous results. I'll leave it at that.


This is how no one in my class looks. Thank God.



I've recently discovered the Red Hot Dance class. Despite my two left feet and complete lack of rhythm, I love this workout. Two reasons: 1) I'm thinner than the instructor (though she knows how to get down and boogie, or whatever the kids are calling it these days) and 2) the rest of the class is actually older than I am (though most of them can dance circles around me).

I would be so much better at Red Hot Dance if I had a few drinks first.

On that note, I would probably have a lot more to show for my working out if I didn't stop for dessert or drinks after leaving the gym.

I have two recommendations for improving self-esteem for women at the gym (don't know that it's an issue for men). 1) In the summer, when the kids are home from school/college, I recommend they establish "Adult Hours." Kinda like adult swim at the pool, except in this case, everyone under the age of 23 would have to work out at a different time than us considerably older folks. 2) 1) I think they should have two separate entrances to the locker room based on weight and age. Not only will this preserve your self-esteem, but it could also come in handy when you inevitably forget your underwear and want to borrow a pair in your size.

Speaking of the locker room, I've learned it's never appropriate to ask "Are those real?" Also where body parts are concerned, while I would find it terribly flattering, some women are not comfortable being told "I would kill for an ass like yours."

Speaking of asses, I hate the way we have to walk past the power lifters to get to our classroom. It's like a freakin' catwalk. I wouldn't mind it so much if the men didn't hold up scorecards. Or, if I scored above a 6.

Finally, based on solid scientific research, I have determined that people who pay more to work out are less likely to have intestinal issues than those who choose less expensive options. A couple years ago I took pilates classes held at our local high school. I also arranged for "Fitness & Fellowship" yoga and pilates classes at my church. These were both bargain priced and during nearly each of these classes someone had gas. Nope it wasn't me. Well, just that one time. In contrast, I have noted that never once has anyone let out a little stinky during Body Flow (pilates, yoga, and tai chi) at the Health Plex. It's a fascinating discovery that clearly requires more research.

Unfortunately, folks, that's all the time I have today. Be sure to stay tuned for our next Freakin' Angels post which will likely be on one of the following important topics:

• Parental involvement in teenage lives
• A culture of entitlement and what it means for mission work
• The mating habits of the Brown Throated Three-Toed Sloth
• The addiction known as Homeland

Running and Riding and Swimming, Oh My!

It's a not-so-silent epidemic striking suburbia. You've undoubtedly seen them yourself, middle-aged adults running, cycling, swimming, stopping just long enough to jump in the mini-van to drop Alex off at soccer practice or have a craft brew with friends. Despite triathlons claiming the lives of many who are close to me, I have refused to succumb.

I'm not sure exactly when it started, but the call of the road and the water has grown from a whisper to a shout, ultimately leading to a pulled muscle groan. Originally, competing in these events was something you heard that a friend of a friend was doing. Then it became something your friend was training for. Then three friends. Then ten. Then your husband. While Rob's been aiming to complete his first triathlon for a couple of years now (waylaid by back surgery in 2011), until just recently I still had a few slackers friends I could count on to eat, drink, and sit around and gain weight with me:

Emily -- She completed her mandatory first triathlon a few years ago, but had suggested she was done with that nonsense had no further need to compete. Recently, however, she went and lost weight (gave up wine, damn her), has gotten back in shape, looks terrific, and has decided to run a distance relay race with a friend.

Doug -- This guy, who I imagine has never been out of shape, but who works out so he can eat like I do, is planning to run some kind of long distance race with his brother in the near future.

Theresa -- Went from primarily knitting and reading her way through life (while raising four boys), to both going back to school to become a nurse, AND adding running to the mix. She just completed a couple of 5Ks.

Dave and Karen - I'm hearing chatter about a possible race in the future for both of them.

Then there are those who've been running and competing for years and who I avoid spending time with because they're so fit and fabulous, including Liz, Christine, Mo, Dave M., Karen, Kevin, Christian, and the whole group known as the TriMonkeys. And just last night on Facebook I saw these status updates from friends:

"This weekend is the biggest tri I will ever complete (I'm hoping!!).  It's the 1/2 ironman/woman distance..."

"Officially signed up for the Philadelphia Marathon..."

To think I was proud to be hitting the gym two or three times a week.

Given the increasing number of friends afflicted by this athletic ambition, I've given the source of the outbreak some serious thought. I believe these factors are contributing to the madness:

1. A need to prove they "still have it." Most of those I know who are suffering from this condition are in their 40s. Competing in a triathlon is their warped response to a mid-life crisis.
2. A desire to get away from the kids. As their children become old enough to stay home alone, these parents are desperate to escape after 10+ years of captivity. Running, cycling, swimming. Whatever it takes to have some "me" time.
3. A 21st century, upper middle class response to "keeping up with the Jones." Peer pressure, plain and simple.

It's also quite possible that the whole triathlon phenomenon is a conspiracy organized by athletic shoe companies, cycle manufacturers, physical therapists, and orthaeopedic surgeons. After all, they have the most to gain.

This Father's Day, my husband will finally have that opportunity to complete his first triathlon sprint. I'm proud of him for returning to training after what was a very difficult year given his back troubles (not helped by months of recent planter facitis pain). I'm proud of the commitment he's making to his physical health. And I'm proud of the example he's setting for our kids. I'll be there to cheer him on on Sunday while relaxing in a lawn chair, enjoying a mimosa and cinnamon bun...

Living through the Change

When we marry, we hope that the things we love about our spouse will always stay the same, and that the things we can't stand don't care for will miraculously disappear or be significantly improved upon. More than one marriage has failed due to such unrealistic expectations. 

When I married Rob, the list of qualities I loved about him was (and is) long. About the only things I could hope would change were his home improvement skills and interest in yard work. I'm not holding my breath. Interestingly, while Rob hasn't morphed into Mr. Fix-It, a few years ago, seemingly all at once, he did make some other significant changes that I didn't see coming:.

• He joined a health club. And actually worked out. A lot.
• He started training for a triathlon.
• He seemed to be purchasing better shoes.
• He started wearing cologne.

Naturally I jumped to conclusions: He’s having an affair a mid-life crisis. Of course, it could have been worse. He could have purchased a sports car and a toupee instead of a road bike and gym membership. And thankfully he stopped wearing cologne after a brief while. I say thankfully not because I didn’t like the scent, but because my “bat shit crazy” self really did worry that something more than smelling good was up with that. I am also pleased to report that cologne was the only thing he dropped from his impressive list of changes. He is still working out, still training for a triathlon, and still wearing nice shoes. The bad news is that Rob has recently made yet another significant change in his life, and I worry about how it will affect our relationship.

Rob appears to be going vegan. Meat and potatoes Kim, married to a vegan?

Thanks to a documentary called Forks Over Knives, Rob has decided to primarily eat only those foods which do not come from animals with four legs. Or something like that. The difference is obvious, in my refrigerator and cabinets, anyway. There’s stuff in there I’ve never seen before. Like vegetables and fresh fruit. And whole grains. And more beans than one man (or woman, for that matter) should ever eat. And did I mention soy milk?

I asked Rob how I was supposed to cook for him now that’s he’s made such a major change to his diet. He responded with “Why start now?” The man has a point.

I know I should be pleased Rob is taking such good care of his health, but being the unsupportive and self-absorbed anxiety-ridden spouse that I am, all I can think about is how this affects me and the children. For example, there is much less space available in the fridge for stuff like soda, jello and pudding, and heavily processed baked goods. And there’s barely room for chips, sugary cereal, and mac-n-cheese in the cupboards. On top of issues of space, there is the issue of added expense. This healthy stuff ain’t cheap, meaning I should probably consider cutting back on the wine and takeout pizza. I also have concerns that Rob will turn into one of “those people” who live in Swarthmore and shop at the Co-Op. He actually brought home their membership brochure. And of course the biggest problem with Rob’s new diet is that it makes me feel bad about myself.

I know I should eat healthier, but I love the not-so-good-for-you stuff. It's my bread and butter, so to speak. I also come from a long line of not-so-healthy-eaters who live into their 90s with no health problems. And thankfully, I seem to have my dad's metabolism. In other words, the incentive just isn't there. I truly believe the only thing that would make me change my eating habits is an immediate threat to my life. As in “Step away from that beer, cheesesteak, and pierogie, or I’ll shoot.” And even then I might attempt to negotiate with my would-be assassin. 

In all seriousness, I’m thrilled happy that Rob is making such positive changes in his life. It would seem to indicate that he wants to live longer, probably so he can spend more time with me. Or, he wants to outlive me so he can enjoy a few years of solitude. Either way, good for him.

Hell's Bells

It's been a long time little while since I bared my soul and shared my heartfelt sentiments whined about things of little importance, but you're in luck because today is the day. I was going to write about the importance of developing strong character in children, but that trivial stuff can wait. See today I went to the gym at 6 a.m. and I'm not at all happy about it. In fact, this early morning workout was the key ingredient in what I believe is a recipe for irritability, one that doesn't require even a pinch of PMS.


Yes. This is me.

It seemed innocent enough. On Sunday morning, over crumb cake from Carlos Bakery (The Cake Boss), I agreed on a whim to accompany my friend Lori to the gym at 6 a.m. Monday for my first ever kettlebell class. As the day progressed, I wondered what the hell I'd been thinking had moments of hesitation, primarily because I greatly enjoy sleeping; the later, the better. But I decided to be a good friend and stick to my commitment. When I tired out around 10 p.m. on Sunday night, I figured I was in good shape for a 5:30 a.m. wake up call. Of course, I hadn't taken into account the hour that it takes me to actually fall asleep or the time needed to move to the couch when Rob starts snoring. At one point during the night I could have sworn I heard the alarm go off, but when I checked the clock it was 2:00 a.m. Then the cat woke me up at 4:30 a.m. And Rob woke me up at 5:00 a.m. And my conscience woke me up at 5:30 a.m. And the terrifying sight in the mirror jump started my system at 5:40 a.m. I had barely enough time to cover the dark circles and shingle scars before jumping in the mom-mobile and racing to the Healthplex.

Enter Healthplex workout room, 5:55 a.m. All the freakin' reasonable weight kettlebells were already claimed. I was left with either the baby-bell or the too-damn-heavy-for-me-bell. And then the instructor was late. Seriously? I got out of bed and made it here on time and this guy's late? Strike one.

Then I noticed my exposed legs were in serious need of a shave. Strike two.

Then my arm-covering psoriasis began glowing bright red from the exertion. Ah, the heartbreak. Strike three.

Then I thought I was going to throw up so I ran to the bathroom. Strike four.

I was more than "out" at this point.

I returned to class just in time for it to end (impeccible timing) and was asked by friends whether I'd be back to tackle the bells in two days. I suggested they ask me tomorrow when I should have some sense for whether I will ever walk or lift my arms again. Then, I crawled my way to the shower.

I think it's a safe bet that I'm sleeping in on Wednesday.

Focus, Commitment, and Perseverance, Oh My!

Our school district has a strong fencing program which Ian participated in last year. Unfortunately, the practice facility moved off-site, membership fees dramatically increased, and Ian wasn't interested enough to make the extra effort and financial investment worthwhile. The other night he mentioned that one of his classmates is now a Junior Olympian in the sport and I asked him if he wished he was still involved. He told me "no" and noted "it would take me about three years to catch up."

Being the pain in the ass thoughtfully concerned mother that I am, I casually responded to Ian's comment, saying:

That's the trouble with kids today. It's interesting that you say that. You don't know what commitment and perseverance mean. I think your generation struggles with commitment and perseverance because life as you know it doesn't require it. You expect to have what you want when you want it immediate results because that's the way things work for you most of the time. Commitment and perseverance involve focus, and it's difficult to focus your attention on one hobby, sport, or talent when life throws new information, entertainment, and opportunities at you at the speed of light. 

Conditioned to life at 4G speeds, it almost seems absurd to ask or expect a kid to invest YEARS mastering anything. They simply aren't used to anything taking time. I have seen this lack of stick-to-it-iveness before with Ian. Regardless of whether he formerly enjoyed an activity, he easily becomes bored and wants to move on. I really believe today's technology conditions kids this way and I expect it will only become worse.

As is the case with most of my posts, I don't have an answer for my conundrum. I suppose I'm pulling a D. Herbert Lipson here (see If Anyone's Going to Insult My Kids, It's Gonna Be Me); just venting and casting a wide net with my fault-finding. The good news is that Ian saw the point I was trying to make during our conversation. The bad news is that he agreed with me, admitted there was nothing he could envision enjoying for years at a time, and will quite possibly see this conversation as justification for the way he is things are.

Two weeks ago Ian joined the gym where Rob and I work out. He's been enjoying weight training and is looking forward to impressing the ladies with his fine physique. I must admit I have had my hopes up that this might be something he could stick with. That was until last night when we were leaving the health club together. Ian pulled up his t-shirt, checked out his abs, and upon discovering that he had not yet developed a six-pack, announced:

This exercising stuff isn't working at all. I quit.

Lonely, Red, and Tempted

As I sit here and eat my Friday morning powdered donut, I thought I'd tell you about my first experience at the Healthplex last evening.

Overall, I'd say it was lonely. One of the very best things about World Class Martial Arts is the camaraderie. We're like one big dysfunctional, but happy family. Well, maybe I was the only dysfunctional one, but you get the idea. We were teammates, comrades, and friends. At the gym, I was a lonely wanderer in a sea of buff bods, self-consciously going from machine to machine with my dorky clipboard of instructions. Not a friendly face to be found.

This is not me on the machine

While my weight training time went smoothly enough (though I'm not as strong as I thought I was), the elliptical machine was another matter. I almost fell off more than once. Now I'm not the most graceful or well-balanced person (in more ways than one), but this was just plain awkward! If you hold the moving handle bars and let one hand go to scratch an itch or turn the page in your magazine, you're completely off kilter. Or, at least I was completely off kilter. I had to remember to first transfer my hands to the stationary bars in order to remain in position if I needed the use of one of my hands.

By the time I had finished my 30 minutes, I'd gone a measly 2 miles and burned a lousy 200+ calories which I then consumed at home in two Snyder's of Hanover sourdough hard pretzels (did you know they are 100 calories each!). When I reached the locker room, I discovered my face was beet red and I looked close to collapse. It's a wonder someone didn't stop and give me chest compressions. Oh, and did I mention I'd been on level 1 the entire time? Clearly this cardio thing is going to be an uphill climb for me.

I think the most interesting part of my first night at the gym came in the locker room, not when I saw my face, but when I saw the vending machine. While the drink choices were standard healthy fare, the snack machine offered Fritos, chips, candy bars, and more! Are you kidding me?? I work like a dog and then you tempt me with my favorite junk food? And next week I'm supposed to talk nutrition with my trainer. Ha!

Overall, I think this whole Healthplex thing is going to take some getting used to. Perhaps if I go with a friend I'll feel more at ease. But then again, I'll probably spend my time comparing myself to that friend and that could work against me. Or our friendship.

My goal for my next visit includes reaching 2.5 miles, burning 300 calories, and navigating safely through the parking garage (I think it's actually more likely I'll be killed in there than on the elliptical machine). Wish me luck!