Giving birth to my daughter prompted
me to evaluate myself. Much to my dismay, this in-depth analysis revealed
a mix of 15% worrywart, 22% night owl and (gasp) 63% cellulite.
As the postpartum weeks passed, the nightly feedings dissipated and my maternal
concern bowed to experience, but the fat deposits appeared to take up residence.
Unfortunately, my insurance company does not believe that liposuction qualifies
as emergency surgery. So, since dimpled thighs are only adorable on babies,
I reluctantly decided to delve into the realm of aerobic exercise.
The torture of the twists and bends, and the crunches and thrusts is rivaled
only by the childbearing that brought me to this point. However, short of
a magic "thin" potion, I saw no other option, but to contort again, in hopes
of regaining my youthful figure and closing in on my driver's license weight
claim.
Before embarking on my trek into the Land of Lean, I required proper outfitting.
Apparently, sane people no longer manufacture workout attire.
Bodysuit design teams are now comprised of disgruntled postal workers who,
instead of arming themselves with sawed-off shot guns and heading to the
bell tower for target practice, scourge the female population with Lyrca
contraptions, which bear an eerie resemblance to dog muzzles.
The racks in the athletic departments are laden with Barbie doll size clothing
that requires an instruction manual just to pull them over your hips.
I suppose I should be happy that the workout thong has an added aerobic benefit
of trying to keep it in place, but this maneuver mimics a dog chasing its
own tail and doesn't go too far in boosting my self-esteem. Upon entering
the aerobic class, the gleam of my classmates' neon-colored leotards cast
a blinding glare.
Apparently, these tribal hues held significance, as we later performed the
ceremonial Babookie Rain Dance to trim our thighs and firm our buttocks.
I'm still not sure if their groans were of pain, as mine were, or a chanting
for cloud cover and precipitation.
After two grueling hours of jumping at commands bellowed forth by an anorexic
prison guard with a score to settle, I vowed to make a break for it. Three
others joined me in the hurdle over the wall and a five-block sprint to the
nearest Krispy Kreme doughnut shop for refueling.
I may not have Jane Fonda's buns of steel, but I've learned to accept my
Roseanne-abs of flab. I'll embrace my girth and stick to my own exercise
routine--deep lunges into the refrigerator for the last piece of chocolate
pie.
About the Author:
Kellie resides in central Illinois, is married and is the mother of six children.
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