Monday, March 16, 2015

Maria Kang Told Me I Had No Excuses, And Then Jillian Micheals Tried To Murder Me

They're called Rolos, Maria. And they're delicious.

Afternoon Readers,

Unless you live in Antarctica, did you hear the first, glorious sounds of spring this week? I'm not sure if the beautiful weather will keep on trending here in Kansas, but, dear, sweet, Lord, let it be so. Right now, the birds are chirping, I have coffee, and a new outlook on life looks immanent.

*This spot reserved for clever transition from happy coffee thoughts to unhappy topical thoughts*

Maria Kang, she's pretty much old news at this point, hashed and re-hashed. Mostly, I ignored her when she jumped on the scene, but then I've never taken kindly to people who tell me to exercise.

(Try me and see if you get invited to my next chili cook off.) 

So, off the radar she fell, until she popped up again recently, telling me, for the second time, I still had no excuses for not exercising. 

"Shit. Give it a rest, Kang. I have Skittles to eat," I yelled from the pantry.

She doesn't know me. Doesn't know that, while not particularly heavy, my post-baby stomach looks like an angry bulldog not even Sarah Mclachlan would adopt out. Angrily, I shut my laptop and padded downstairs to the living room, where I turned on the TV and stopped, right before I collapsed on the couch.

"Am I really making excuses?"
"Maybe. No. I don't know."
"I stay home. There's time."
"Wait, did you change over the laundry?"
"No idea. Maybe just two crunches."
"Hold on. Where'd I put the kids?"
"Hmm, I think the twins are busy, but after I pulled the toddler out of the toilet, I think he got distracted with putting bread all over the stairs. Ok, let's do this."
"Cool. Down with excuses!"
"Wait, is that my toddler trying to climb in the sewer outside?"
"Look at that, it's already lunch. I'll think more about this after a solid pb and j."

Over lunch, I chewed some bread and the thought that perhaps I was just lazy. Sure, I had sixteen loads of laundry, four hundred fights to break up, and twenty-one meals to plan a week, but there were people who surfed with one leg and blind orphans who climbed Mount Everest, and hadn't Heidi Klum shopped at Target once?

Get it together, Paige.

Because I'm serious about proper form, I didn't put a bra on and wandered in search of a workout video on Youtube that fit the bill of a thirty-something looking to subdue guilt and not really sweat a lot.

Abs of Steel
Five Hundred Miles of Running Fun
What Doesn't Kill You, Isn't Working: A beginner's guide to lifting

There had to be something. "Ahh, here we go. Jillian Micheals. People seem to like her. Why not?"

Important: What She looks like at the beginning

"I've come to deliver you from your fat. I am the Pied Piper of cellulite."
     Cautiously optimistic, I hit play and prepared to have the abs of a Spartan warrior delivered to me before dinner. Maybe I'd been wrong all these years. Maybe fitness could be fun and happy and...

"And that's it for our warmup."

From the spot on the floor where I'd prostrated myself, I looked up. "What?" Suddenly, where peace had formerly resided, a storm cloud parked itself on Jillian's face.

"Part two. Abandon all hope."

The baby, covered in strawberry jam and holding a stack of unpaid bills, wandered over and sat on my back so I couldn't get up.

"Pick up the pace. You can do this."

"I can't."

"You can!"

"I have a toddler sitting on me. Where's your toddler, Jillian?"

Gingerly, I rolled out from under the baby and clawed a path to my knees. "You know, I heard, once, if you hear a hamstring snap, you should stop. Something's crackling in there like the Fourth of July."

Without an ounce of pity, I was marched on. "Up to the sky! Down to the ground! Commit to this. Commit to you. Don't quit!"

I yelled desperately to any one of my children who could hear me. "Ten dollars to the kid who takes mom out with a butter knife in the next sixty seconds." I could only survive on witty banter for so long. 

From the corner of my eye, I saw the baby slipping back upstairs. "Hey, where do you think you're going? Jillian didn't say you could leave."

"I'm thirsty."

I lunged and heard my knee shatter. "We're all thirsty down here in the tenth circle of hell."

He ran his chubby legs up to the kitchen and never looked back.

A billion crunchs
A trillion lungy things
Something I don't know the name of but almost snapped my spine in two

When it was all over, I had just enough energy to hit "off" and go in search of the destruction I was sure had kept the children busy while I'd been downstairs fighting for my life. Now that I've had a few days to process, these are my findings:

Do I make excuses? Yes.

Are these excuses legitimate? Yes. Because Jillian Micheals will try to murder you, and your kids will burn your house down while you're distracted.

Final Note: While I enjoyed the resulting endorphins, working out almost resulted in my untimely death and also the baby taking my absence to mean it was OK to pour an entire bottle of body wash into the shower, dump out the pickles, and try to increase his lash volume with my treasured staple, Maybelline "Blackest Black" mascara.*

*Will be billing Maria Kang for new mascara.

P.S I'm hopeless case, but if you're looking for a guide to working out with kids that's actually helpful, pop over and grab some wisdom from Grace

Until Next Time, Readers!

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