Last night I was excited to get back into “the gym scene” as I have slacked off lately.
I’ve missed 3 Aerobic Dance classes in a row. Which is a record for me because I NEVER miss Aerobic Dance Class.
Imagine my HORROR when some lady who I do not know stood at the front of the class to announce that Anna had cancelled and there would be “no Dance today.” Instead, it would be just regular ol’ aerobics.
Regular ol’ aerobics are DUMB.
I wanted to walk out, but I was in “my spot” in the front of the room and didn’t want to look like a poor sport, but inside? I was throwing the biggest tantrum. And I was kind of mad at Anna, how dare she get sick, or too busy to come and teach me new moves. HOW DARE SHE.
The class started and I couldn’t stop rolling my eyes. No! Seriously. I kept rolling my eyes and sighing. IT WAS SO DUMB.
About halfway through the Dumbest Routine Ever, she decided to throw in a few token, but TOTALLY DUMB dance “moves.” If you can even call them “moves.”
At that point, my eyes almost got stuck in the back of my head from the rollage because DO NOT EVEN TRY TO PRETEND LIKE YOU ARE AEROBIC DANCE INSTRUCTING, YOU POSER.
I really was hating the instructor at this point, because The Lameness was overwhelming, but then, she said five little words and TOTALLY REDEEMED HERSELF.
“Make the moves your own.”
Sweet Mother of Aerobic Dance. She had just given me permission to bust out my Aerobic Dance Greatness. I don’t think she realized the monster she was unleashing by uttering those words because HOLY CRAP, people, DID I EVER MAKE THE MOVES MY OWN.
I’m embarrassed now that I think about it, but in the heat of the moment, I truly thought I was “The Shit.”
She was all “Let’s do the charleston.”
So, we did the Charleston and about halfway through, I decided it was time to kick it up a notch and show her what I was made of and um, the part where you kick back? I went down to the floor and SLAPPED THE GROUND.
It took her a few times to notice, but you better believe she noticed. She was all “Whoa, look at how low she can go.”
Recognition from the intructor ACHIEVED.
Obviously, she was not aware of the fact that it’s best to NOT encourage me.
The chick behind me didn’t like the fact that I was being singled out for my greatness. She also was in awe of my TOTALLY AWESOME “Slap the ground” move and decided it was time (try to) OUT FREESTYLE AEROBIC DANCE ME.
She started doing all of these crazy moves, which made me feel like I had to “one up” her and so then I started doing these crazy moves right back at her and OMG. She wasn’t intimidated and broke out this one really awesome move (which, it kills me to admit that, but damn, why didn’t I think of hopping on one leg first?) Before you know it, we’re in this FULL ON (silent) AEROBIC DANCE WAR and OMG! I started to panic inside which caused me to get desperate and do things I NEVER would have thought I’d do on the Aerobic Dance Floor.
At this point, I think the instructor caught on to what was happening because, SERIOUSLY PEOPLE, it was pretty damn obvious and OH MY GOD, I can’t stop laughing just thinking about it because I MADE AN ASS OUT OF MYSELF but, because I think I am the Greatest Aerobic Dancer to have ever lived, I couldn’t stop myself. But, back to the instructor. She knew what was going on and wasn’t sure how to handle it. It’s like, she knew she’d have to declare “A winner” somehow, someway before a)someone got hurt by busting out a dangerous move b) someone got punched in the vagina because, honestly, don’t EVEN try to step to this, biznitch.
This is the part where I start to cry on the inside again because a winner was clearly chosen and it was NOT me.
The instructor liked one of the moves that my competitor busted out and said something like “Look at her go.” (And here is where I admit that I FULLY thought she was talking about me, until she verbalized what the move looked like and I realised that I hadn’t done that move.) Then, and, this is the part that hurts SO BAD, she asked the girl to stay after class to “brainstorm some new moves” after class because she really liked her moves.
As if having my ass handed to me in a silent aerobic dance off wasn’t heartbreaking enough, I had to come home and read that my sweet, beautiful, partially deaf Elliot was voted off of American Idol. I kind of hate America for that, but not as much as I hate that obviously blind and very dumb dance instructor for not having choosen ME as The Winner.
HONK.
This morning, at around 6am, I hear a the horn of a car go off about 6 times in a row. Two very long beeps, followed by 4 short ones.
My first thought was “Who in the hell thinks it’s ok to honk at 6 am? Do I need to go punch someone?”
But, I was willing to let it go because I was tired.
A few seconds later, MORE REPEATED HONKING. This time, I wasn’t going to let it go because whoever this asshole was had crossed “The Line.”
I don’t understand people who are too lazy to get out of the car and knock on the door. It’s acceptable sometimes. Like, if it’s raining, or if the person knows you’re on their way and you tell them “I’ll beep when I get there.” But most times, I think people who do that are just being lazy and rude. However, when you do that shit repeatedly at SIX IN THE FREAKING MORNING, you’re not only lazy and rude, you are also A BIG DICK! Congratulations!
I was seriously ready to kick some dick ass after having been woken up by an inconsiderate honker. I ran outside, found the Honking Offender, made eye contact, raised my hands up in the air in the “What in the HELL” position and screamed “Get out of YOUR CAR AND KNOCK, DAMMIT.”
Apparently, Dick Honker didn’t know who he was dealing with because instead of fearing me, she, ( and you’re not going to believe this) HONKED IN MY FACE. She looked right at me, laid her hand on the horn in dramatic “screw you!” fashion.
I can not tell you the rage that burned inside of me. My first reaction was to run with my bra-less self and fight her! But I had sleeping kids in the house and who runs to fight someone when they have little kids sleeping inside?
Just one more reason to LOVE this ‘hood of mine.
As if I needed Another.
freaking.
reason.
MY American Idol.
I’ll be voting for Elliot ALL NIGHT tonight.
I love Elliot. Did you hear that Internet? I LOVE ELLIOT.
Bless his little heart.
People don’t think he’s pretty enough to win and to those people, I raise my middle fingah high up in the air and kindly tell them to SUCK IT. The kid can sing. His voice is powerful and I kind of want him to sing songs to me ([little voice]while I stroke his 98% deaf ear softly[/little voice] and cook enchiladas for him, because, yes, I daydream about cooking enchiladas for him, whilst he sings to me.
Dear Body,
Making peace with you, learning to love you is harder than I imagined it would be.
You gave me my beautiful children, my three beautiful children. It should be easy to love you for that reason alone. I do love you for that. I do.
But, my God, I hate you too.
I hate you because I am a slave to you. I hate you because there are so many things in life I’ve not been able to do because of the fears and insecurities I have about you.
Your sagging breasts embarrass me.
Your gaping hole of a belly button repulses me.
Your stretch marks humiliate me.
Your loose, hanging skin infuriates me.
The excess fat that you continue to hold onto so tightly angers me.
My husband loves you. He desires you. He thinks you’re beautiful. Sexy, even. I don’t understand how he can feel that way. I truly do not.
I want to feel the way he does about you. I want to love you. I want to love looking at you, or at the very least, not want to puke when I look at you.
It’s hard to look at you without crying. Especially when I compare you to other, beautiful bodies. Or to the way you used to look.
You used to be so beautiful.
I know it’s not fair to compare you to other women, or to your young self. But it’s hard not to. Everywhere I look, I’m bombarded with images of bodies that look nothing like you. It’s hard not to feel like a freak of nature when all of the images I see look so completely different than you. I once saw images that looked similar to you. It was a campaign for “real beauty” and I cried with joy and suddenly didn’t feel like such a freak. But then? I heard people talking about how ugly those bodies looked and how they were repulsed by what they had seen, and how those women had NO business taking pictures in their underwear because no one wanted to see all of that and suddenly, my tears of joy turned once again to tears of shame and hatred towards you.
I’ve become more comfortable with “The Clothed You.” I would have NEVER taken Aerobic Dance Class in the past because I would have been too ashamed and self conscience of my Lumpy Ass, or the Jiggly Arms. But after having shed a few pounds, I have learned to accept my Clothed Self.
But when the clothes come off, HATE HATE HATE what I see.
I’m tired of hating you, of fighting with you, of wishing you were different. So very tired of wasting all of my energy in that way.
I just wanted you to know that I don’t want to hate you or be ashamed of you anymore, I’m just completely lost as to how to NOT feel this way anymore.
But I’m working on it. Be patient with me.
(I wrote this at 1am this morning. I’ve debated if I should post it or not because people get so damn angry at me when I write about my body, but if I let Angry People stop me from writing what I want to write, than I might as well shut this blog down because that’s DUMB to censor myself based on what people will think.)
Error
I had been working on a post about my history of “issues with food and body image” since late last night. It was very long, extremely personal and brutally honest. As I was writing it, I cried (thinking of the horrid things I’ve put my body through all in the name of “trying to be skinny.) I laughed (Ha! Ha! I once threw a burrito across the room because it wasn’t EXACTLY as I had ordered it and when I want a burrito, it better be done right because chances are I was eating it as one last “splurge” before I went on a crazy diet.) I got angry (Why can’t I make peace with food?)
As I was re-reading to check for mistakes before hitting “Save”, a huge white box flashed before my eyes with the words “Firefox has caused an error. Firefox will NOW CLOSE.”‘
And just LIKE THAT, the entire post and all of the emotion that went into it was GONE.
Do I need to tell you how pissed I was? Because OH MY GOD, I WAS SO PISSED OFF.
But HA! HA! Not as pissed off as my daughter was when her dad had the NERVE to tell her “No!”
Sweet Mother of Bobs, she is SO much like me. I mean, seriously, that is exactly what I look like when Tony forgets to bring home ranch dressing for my curly fries, or, you know, when FIREFOX CRASHES and takes my post with it. LUCKY TONY, having two Emotional Basketcases in this house.
But, seriously folks, Firefox can suck my Milky Big Ones. Damn it.
The one in which I email Jay Mohr and tell him to “Scroll to the bottom” so he doesn’t have to read about me farting in aerobic dance class.
Tonight Aerobic Dance Class was Ceraaazy, people.
I admit that I get more pumped up then a person should get about dancing aerobicly. I also admit that I am EXTREMELY COCKY about it and pretty much think I am The Best Aerobic Dancer in the mutha fucking HOUSE.
Anyway, cute Aerobic Dance Instructor with the Perfect Buttocks was all “Tonight, we do Hip Hop/Jazz combination.” And OH MY GOD. I wanted to scream because A COMBINATION DANCE IS A DREAM COME TRUE. I held it together on the outide, but on the inside, I was dying (DYING!) from excitement (ok, and my mouth was watering a little too.)
The dance started and they were pretty simple “moves.” So of course, the other wimmins thought they were all that and started to get all cocky. Totally uncalled for, bitches. (I know, I know, I’m cocky, who am I to talk? Um, only The Greatest Aerobic Dancer to have ever dance aerobic-ly. That’s who! REPSECT THAT SHIT.) I was like “hell to the NO on that. It is *I* who rules the room, it is *I* who Gets All The Moves The First Time. Don’t even try it.” Seriously.
She starts incorporating the harder moves and do I even need to tell you that I nailed each and every one of them? No. I do not.
Finally, we get to the end of the dance and she does this TOTALLY AWESOME MOVE that I nail the first time (Of COURSE I do!) At least I thought I nailed it until I feel a woman furiously tapping my shoulder and hear screams of “You’re RIGHT hand, not your left, your RIGHT!” My first reaction was one of shock, like, I KNOW she did NOT just touch my aerobic dance arm in a violent like manner. But, as I was thinking of how to take her down for even thinking of STEPPING TO THIS, the girl next to her shouts “yeah, I’m following YOU, so if you’re gonna stand in the front row, you should get it RIGHT.”
I’ll let that sink in for a minute.
What.The.Hell?
I couldn’t believe what was happening and that THE WIMMINS WERE HOLDING ME ACCOUNTABLE FOR THEIR MISTAKES. As if I was some kind of Aerobic Dancing GOD who they look up to and who is not allowed to make mistakes. UM. I am not the Instructor, but a mere student of The Aerobic Dance. I realize that I am awesome at it and I’m flattered that they look up to me in that way, but no one forced their asses to follow ME. Hello? Am not the instructor. DO NOT EVER TAP ME ON MY ARM OR SPEAK TO ME DURING THE DANCE EVER AGAIN.
To get them back (and this is a true story!) I let one rip towards the end of class and gave them a little something “special.” But that’s not even the best part. Oh no. You see, after I ripped one, I turned around and looked at the “two who tried to step to this” and made a face like “HOW DARE YOU.”
What can I say, Aerobic Dance brings out the absolute best in me.
In other completely unrelated news, my “friend” (no! really) Jay Mohr asked me if I could get a group of 50 people together to go see him at The Irvine Improv this weekend. I didn’t have the nerve to tell him I only know like 29 people in real life, but I was all “Sure! I will ask the people who read my BALAWWG if they want to go with me to see the show!”
Anyway, if you’re in So Cal and you know, want to go see a great comedy show, email me, or just purchase tickets from The Improv and I’ll see you there.
(His buffness is TOTALLY worth the $$. Oh, and he’s kinda funny.)
Man, this is going to be embarrassing.
The one issue I’ve been completely honest with on this BALAWWWG is my weight/body image. I’ve always talked openly about my struggle with weight and hating my body (except for that “one time” when I let The Mean People win and swore I’d never talk about my weight again because I didn’t like getting mail that said things like “put the hamburger down, quit whining and go to the gym, you fat ass whale.”)
I am fully aware that the Lakers are currently getting their asses kicked by the Suns. TAUNTING NOT NECESSARY.
STEVE NASH IS UGLY.
RAJA BELL IS A CRYBABY
And that is as mature and as intelligent as it’s going to get around here about the game.
body
Look at me. Trying to be sexy with my saggy boobs. God. I remember when my boobs used to be “Up Where They Belong.” Now, they don’t even START until about “mid waist”. Awesome.
My relationship with my body is a complicated one. It’s one that few people understand.
Learning to love and accept my “after 3 kids and a huge weight loss” body isn’t easy. There’s not very much to love about it. Infact? I can’t think of ONE reason to love it. Sad.
But I can think of so many reasons that I hate it. I could go on for hours.
Sagging boobs.
Loose skin.
Stretch marks. (Everywhere)
Jacked up belly button.
Veiny legs.
Hanging belly.
I have spent a great deal of time crying about the state of my body. I’ve spent a great deal of time wishing I had taken better care of it.
It’s affected me in many areas of my life and the hatred and shame I associate with it has prevented me from doing many things in my life.
Things like taking a shower with my husband (who begs me on a regular basis to do so), get massages (I have to get naked? Pass.), going to the beach with friends (Shorts? Tank tops? SWIMSUITS? Pass.). The list goes on and on.
I’ve gotten much better about not letting my body hatred keep me from enjoying life, but there are still times where I feel completely uncomfortable and unable to enjoy life because of how I feel about my body.
Even in Aerobic dance class! (ha! ha! HA! You thought, “Finally, a post where she doesn’t bring up Aerobic Dancing!”) There are certain moves that I hold back on because I know if I shake TOO hard, thighs will start slapping together and ass cheeks will shake furiously, building into a tidal wave effect that could quite possibly knock the Old Hag behind me out cold. So, I hold back (and wear a sweat shirt around my waist, to minimize the Tidal Wave Effect.)
I’ve been having long, deep conversations with my body recently. I don’t want to hate it anymore. I want to appreciate it, I want to accept it. It is what it is, you know? I can’t go back in time and change it. (Well, technically, I can, you know, through a little thing called “plastic surgery” but a) I can’t afford it b) I’m too chicken shit of needles and of things like BLEEDING TO DEATH FROM A BOTCHED TUMMY TUCK, Bonus: Have you SEEN Carol Burnett’s face? :shudders:)
I feel as though I’m on the road to making peace with my body. I know I’ll never like the way that it looks. I know I’ll always feel insecure and ugly when I see a woman with a beautiful body, but I refuse to spend the rest of my life hating myself because of the body I live in.
While I don’t think I could ever say things like “Goodmorning, oh very large, sagging breasts! How do I love you? Let me count the ways!” or “Hello, oh gapping hole of a belly button, it’s SO GOOD to see you!”
However, I do feel like I can make peace with my body. Like I can come to terms with the way it looks, the way it feels and be “ok” with it. I may never love it, but maybe, just maybe, I can learn to appreciate it.
Remember how I told you that I couldn’t think of ONE reason to love my body? As I wrote this post, I was able to come up with three reasons.
Andrew, Ethan and Gabriella.
How can I hate the very thing that gave me those beautiful children?
Because “basic paint users” should NEVER be ashamed of their “artwork”
It’s a well established FACT in this house that G-Unit is The Boss of Me.
She is also The Boss of her dad. And The Boss of her brubers. Let’s just go ahead and call her The Boss of This House.
We all accept that and understand that if The Boss aint happy, aint NOBODY happy, and so, we do our best to make sure The Boss is happy.
HOWEVER. The Boss has taken things too far because she now believes that she is The Boss of My Computer.
