The Suburban Life

I’ve recently been presented with a new situation that is slightly concerning.  This situation is unchartered territory for me and at this point I’m not entirely sure what steps I should be taking to avoid this complication.

You see…

My dog is scared of my exercise pants.

Due to the extensive rain and colder weather this winter I have been doing the majority of my exercising indoors.  On any given day I could be “shredding” with Jillian, “cheering” with the DC Cheerleaders, “sweatin’” with Richard or “walking away the pounds” with Leslie.  And, since we’ve recently acquired a flat screen plasma television neatly mounted above our fireplace in the front room (yeah…definitely Jer’s doing) I have been gettin’ my workout on in there.  (Because, everyone knows, the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders just don’t look quite attractive enough on a standard screen without high definition.)

Now, normally, Lewis (the dog) is attached to me like a fly to a pile of poop.  Wait.  That would make me the ‘poop’.  Bad analogy.  Um, how about this one.  Lewis is attached to me like candy to a fat kid.  Dangit.  Okay, you get the picture.  He’s attached.  Moving on. 

A couple of weeks ago, I had just talked myself off the couch and Leslie Sansone was in my brain willing me to Walk Away the Cheezits.  I headed toward the bedroom and my good ol’ sturdy exercise pants, my little buddy trailing closely behind me.  

This is when I was faced with the new situation.

As I began pulling up myexercise pants I noticed Lewis looking at me…his furry face riddled with fear. 

“What’s up, buddy?” I asked.

He started backing away from me, slowly.  

I stood there, my winterized legs (in terrible need of a shave) glowing brightly in contrast to my black lycra pants.  I suddenly felt very vulnerable.  Was it the sight of me in these less than attractive pants causing his sudden trepidation?   Were my white legs causing his imminent panic attack?

Watching him back away from me, I pulled my pants all the way on and reached down to quickly shove my feet in my Nikes. 

That did it.

The little puff-ball beat feet and dove under Jer’s desk.  If the dude could drive I’m pretty sure he would have been halfway across the country before I figured out what was happening.

Jer, who I forgot was at his computer and had sat there watching the entire exchange, said,”That was weird.”

“Um, yeah.  What’s his problem?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.  He’s under my legs though and I don’t think he’s moving,” Jer said.

“All I did was put on my…Oh. My. God.  He hates my exercise pants.”  Of course!  Wait…what?

“Mindy, he doesn’t hate your exercise pants.  Why would he?  That makes no sense.”

“Um, I don’t know,Jer.  But as soon as my leg slid into these things the dog freaked out.  Okay?  I need to go work out.  We’ll figure this out later.”  I stomped out, slightly affronted over my dog’s apparent prejudice against athletic apparel.

I started my workout, trying to shake the image of my little dog’s fear-filled eyes, shivering helplessly under my husband’s legs.

About halfway through my sweat-fest I noticed Jer had entered the room, laughing. 

“What, Jer?” I huffed. 

“I figured it out.  I figured out what’s wrong with Lewis!” he answered, between bouts of laughter.

“Okay, what is it?” 

“Every time you take a step on that hardwood it sounds like elephants are partying it up in the living room.   The pounding is resonating through the house.”  Jer was standing there, shaking his head.  Proud of his discovery.

Hmmm.

“Jer.” 

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Did you just compare me to an…elephant?” 

“Um…huh?” Jer asked, his voice suddenly modulating like a pre-pubescent boy. 

“An elephant, Jer?  Really?” I asked.

“Bad analogy.”

Yeah.

So, as you can see, I find myself in a new situation.  I apparently will need to approach my dog’s needs with more sensitivity.  At the very least I should be working out with a lighter step so as not to resonate an elephant-like stomp throughout the house.  Thanks a lot for that, Jer.

Mindy

Well, it’s January, the time of year when most Americans renew their pledge to get fit and strong, and I’m no exception.  Okay, if not fit and strong, then slightly in shape and at least stronger than my kids.  And, since they’re only 6 and 3 I’m thinking I’ve got about 6 years to beef up a little.

I’ve always been a fan of exercise.  Most days of the week I get, at the minimum, 45 minutes of moderate to intense activity.  Until recently, when my treadmill decided it was angry for being vanquished to my garage and attempted to burn it down, I was a treadmill junkie.  We set up a television and DVD player right in front of the machine and I could work out forever watching Bridget Jones’ Diary or, yes, Days of our Lives.  There’s something about Bridget’s obsession with her own weight, and the rock-hard abs on DOOL’s Rafe that keeps my mind occupied.  Sometimes a little too occupied, and if I’m being honest here, a tad obsessed.  With Rafe’s abs that is.  Hmm.

Anyway, as I said, my treadmill burned up and I’ve been forced to pull out some workout DVD’s and humiliate myself in front of my family.  You already know about Jack’s fascination with my exercise pants but Avery and Jer are not much help either.  As I’m stomping away in the living room, sweat dripping off my forehead, they pass by and sometimes stop to watch a little.  Now, with Jer, I can pretty much say, “Get lost,” and he will.  But, Avery? I’m trying to put a very positive spin on physical activity, you know, a teaching moment?  So I will let her watch and encourage her to join in.

Until recently.

I was all dressed up and ready to exercise.  Not wanting to do a DVD I decided to check out Exercise TV On Demand.  I noticed a fairly new category named, “Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.”  Interesting.  I read the introduction to the workout and was immediately intrigued.  Are they telling me that I can do their series of workouts and in no time at all have a DCC body?  Yes, please.  Sign me up. I looked around to make sure no one was watching and clicked play on the “Boot Camp” workout. 

In all actuality, it’s a fairly easy workout.  There isn’t a lot of high impact exercise, but the trainer emphasizes a ton of strength training in cadence (one-two-three-ONE, one-two-three-TWO.)  So you’re actually doing 3 times the standard number of repetitions.   Tiring, but simple.  The ease of the movements along with the melodic counting in cadence started to take its toll as my mind began to wander. 

(Okay, so here’s where the story gets a little bit embarrassing.)

As I said, I was really digging this workout and started daydreaming a little bit.  Having watched enough “Making the Team” on CMT to be familiar I started imagining myself trying out for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders squad.   Next thing I knew I was shaking my be-dunka-dunk (that’s a more fly way of saying “but”t and certainly more appropriate for the kind of dancing I was doing) and busting out some old cheerleader moves from the Great High School Squad Tryout of 1990 (FYI – I didn’t make it.)   I was just getting into the rousing second act of my number when…

“Whatcha doing?”

My head whipped around to find Avery standing behind me.  Looking mightily confused. 

‘Oh, hey, Avery.  I”m just…um…working out.”  God.

“That didn’t look like working out, mom.  Were you trying to be a cheerleader?” 

“Um, no.  No.  I was dancing.  Dancing is a great workout, Avery.  Seriously.  It’s good for you.  And your hips.  And stuff.” 

“But you weren’t dancing.  You were doing cheerleader stuff.  I know ’cause I’ve seen these cheerleaders on TV.”

Damn television.  

“Okay, Avery.  Yes.  I was trying to do cheerleading moves.  But, it’s still good exercise.  And, no.  I’m not a cheerleader but it’s fun to pretend sometimes.”

And then Avery reminded me why she is such a cool chick.  “I think you’d be a great cheerleader, mom.  Really.” 

“Thanks, Avery.”  What a sweetheart.  I really don’t deserve such great kids.

“But you’re too old.” 

Selfish brat.

So, from now on I am sticking with my normal workout DVD’s unless I am positively sure that no one is going to walk in and see me get my groove on. 

This new year, 2010, will be a positive and healthy one for this suburban housewife.  I may not achieve the highly coveted Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders body but will work harder at being the best that I can be (which would be more along the lines of the cheerleaders slightly plumper yet beautiful older cousin.) 

In fitness and in health, Mindy

So, I discovered something about myself the other day.  Something I never saw coming in a million years…are you ready?   Here it is.

I kick ass at water aerobics. 

I’m not kidding.  I’m shockingly good at it.  What defines “good”?  How exactly does one “kick ass” at water aerobics?  Allow me to enlighten you.

Recently, I joined a water aerobics class at the local pool with my sister-in-law, Sara.  I was a little apprehensive about it at first because I haven’t done a water aerobics class for quite some time.  And, I’ve got to be honest, I’ve never been that great at it.  First, I can’t ever get the frickin’ ankle floats on correctly.  Second, when I finally manage to stumble into the pool my ankles immediately float to the top of the water and I spend the next 10 minutes trying to wrestle my legs back under.  At this point, I usually will have floated to some obscure corner of the pool and have to make my way back to join the class!  I will already be sweating before I even get a chance to start!

But this time…oh, this time…was different.

After I successfully put on my ankle floats (admittedly, I DO NOT kick ass at this part and still pretty much suck at it) I stepped into the water and I immediately became a part of it.  It welcomed me.  I slid into my space easily (feet under water, thank you very much) and actually was able to start the class from the beginning! 

And here’s where the “kick ass” part begins.

The instructor had us essentially running lines in the pool.  Jog to the first cone.  Cross-country ski back.  Jog to the second cone.  Cross-country ski back.  (You get the picture, right?)  So I set off for the first cone, reach it, turn back around and realize that I am WAY ahead of everyone else in the class!  I mean, seriously ahead.  I smoked them!  All of them! 

What?!?  You guys, this kind of thing doesn’t happen to me.  I’m the one who can’t stay on top of a floatie at the pool (just ask various members of my family.)  I get on, I fall off.  Get back on, fall back off.   Cussing ensues.  Lifeguards pinpoint me as the “one” to watch.  I get a little cheeky and challenge everyone  to a race to the end of the pool.  I get about halfway across when I realize everyone else is finished and standing at the Snack Shack getting a drink.  I’m seriously that slow!   

But not at this water aerobics class!  I’ve gone through a metamorphosis of sorts.  It’s all so natural!  I’m just sailing through all of the moves with the ease and grace of Esther Williams but the precision and speed of Michael Phelps.  Amazing.  Sara is giving me dirty looks and accusing me of having webbed hands.  Other class participants are whispering to each other, “Who is that girl?” (Alright, I might have embellished this part a little bit.)  For real though, the instructor put me in front to lead the Soul Train around the pool near the end of class.  This is when I know I am really that good.

It’s kind of fun being really good at something.  I’m already looking forward to my next class!  Maybe I should take up synchronized swimming.  Olympic Games 2012?  No problem!

Love to all, Mindy