Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

Cramming

in Blather and Profound Notions, Jazzercise, The Queen of Pain

The voices in my head are singing Keep Me in Your Heart by Warren Zevon.

What I’m reading: Your Heart Belongs to Me by Dean Koontz

I came across a quote today that really struck a chord with me:

“If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake up early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape.” Ray Bradbury

I think for too long I’ve been starving myself, always being afraid to read too much while I was writing. I had the idea it would mess with my voice. Don’t get me wrong, I devour fiction. But I’ve been in the habit of stockpiling books and waiting until I’m in an editing cycle before I read them.

I’ve officially abandoned that policy, and am going to gorge myself daily with everything imaginable. I’m hoping my morning voices will wake me and haul me out of bed to capture all their insanity. Right now I’m engrossed in Dean Koontz’s latest. He’s one of my three or four favorite authors of all time. Who are the others? Okay, I have eclectic reading tastes. In no particular order, I also get email alerts from Barnes and Noble when Carl Hiaasen, Sandra Brown, or Michael Connelly has a new book coming out. I also love John D. McDonald’s Travis McGee series.

Did I dance today? Well yes, I did. I have several sore muscles for my efforts, although, I have to say, I’m not particularly fond of the set the Queen of Pain is currently using. With one or two exceptions, the songs don’t speak to me. This is unusual, as typically I really like her music.

Note: If I were the alien on the stage, I’d pick the songs I liked, not some whiny, VOLUPTUOUS woman who shows up erratically.

But I have discovered that not liking the music is not necessarily a bad thing. When the music moves me, I forget my sore muscles, and what a spectacle I’m likely making of myself, and shake shake shake my…well, you get the idea. This is a much more exhausting workout. When I don’t like the music as much, I don’t push myself. It’s not a conscious decision, it’s just the way it works out.

It’s actually a good thing that she doesn’t have my favorites in. I might hurt myself. I need to work up to the funk.

Peace, out…

Susan

So Much is Explained

in Jazzercise, The Queen of Pain

With all the financial news, folks getting sworn in, and Brittney’s latest lyric scandal, y’all might have missed the most important item in the news today.

There is a VIRUS that causes folks to be fat, and it’s HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS!! You can catch it from someone in the office, on a plane, or in the mall. If you have cold symptoms, YOU may have this adenovirus. I am not making this up, and I did not hear about it in a forwarded email. It was on the news.

I tried to explain this to Casey (the Queen of Pain) today at Jazzercise, but she would have none of it. My first day back, and she had me doing pushups. I have explained to her on NUMEROUS occasions why it defies the law of gravity for VOLUPTOUS women to do push-ups, but she didn’t want to hear about this either.

She may have been distracted by all the excitement at Jazzercise Fitness Center today. January is like Christmas for anyone selling skinny. They have a new program–their version of “The Biggest Loser.” There are cash prizes involved, so I’m thinking I might sign up. They were selling this hard today. They also had balloons, drawings for prizes, and–get this–PASTRIES. What is up with that? It’s like they were trying to pork us up as big as possible so all the pounds they sweat off us will be more dramatic. These aliens are sneaky. Anyone who doesn’t understand that Jazzercise instructors are mostly aliens, please read this.

They were also having one of those of those, “haul your friends in here and blackmail them with whatever you’ve got on them until they sign up and we’ll give you a T-shirt” deals. Hazardously- perky Julie (who owns the place) was behind the desk practically percolating with enthusiasm over all the exciting ways they want to torture us into smaller sizes this year.

I sure hope this cold I’m getting over isn’t that fat virus. I could have infected a lot of people today… This could be really bad. All those women in there eating pastries and getting the fat virus… Umm, umm, ummm. They sure are going to be mad if that virus keeps them from getting skinny after all that pain and sweat.

Peace, out…

Susan

The Leading Cause of Brain Crud

in Blather and Profound Notions, Jazzercise, The Queen of Pain

The voices in my head are singing Where’s the Love Y’all, by the Black Eyed Peas.

What I’m reading: A Deadly Shade of Gold, by John D. MacDonald.

The Queen of Pain accused me this morning of suffering from Brain Crud, in response to my plea for sympathy on account of having the head and chest crud for eight weeks. Now, setting aside her complete and utter lack of sympathy, she has a point. I feel like I need to take one of those things the dentist uses to clean your teeth and scrape off all the nooks and crannies of my gray matter.

At first I thought it was just a holiday, family/mall/carb-overload hangover, but I now suspect it’s something far more insidious. I have television poisoning.

I typically don’t watch much TV–just a few favorite shows: Boston Legal (which won’t be a problem anymore as its last episode aired before Christmas), Monk, The Closer, Saving Grace, and more recently, Leverage, the new Timothy Hutton series. But over the holidays, I fall into bad habits.

It starts with watching a few holiday movies on the Hallmark channel with my mother. Nothing gets you into the holiday spirit quite like heartwarming romantic holiday fluff. Then, there are all those bowl games, and playoff games. Left to my own devices I wouldn’t watch much of that, but most of the family-and-friend pool like it, so we watch.

Before long, I have a customary place on the sofa that calls to me as soon as the dinner dishes are in the dishwasher. I start CHANNEL SURFING–looking for something to watch. I become far less discriminating, although, let me say right here that if I ever type the words, “I finally broke down and watched an episode of American Idol,” somebody just call up the nervous hospital and have them send a padded wagon.

Disclaimer: I mean no slight, aspersion, or snark to anyone who enjoys “Reality TV.” I just personally don’t care for it at all. I’m convinced it’s a vast Hollywood conspiracy to inflate profits. I like my escapism with a plot…you know, something that involves writers, some reasonably talented actors, and a set. I digress.

It’s not the shows that are really the issue, though I typically spend my leisure hours with my first love, books. It’s the commercials. Oh. Dear. Tara.

It’s so bad, that when a decent commercial comes on, I actually remark on how well it was done. This happens about once a week. The prescription drug ads are awful, but the really, really bad commercials–the ones that cause the maximum buildup of Brain Crud are the ones that include the words, “But WAIT!” You know the ones I’m talking about… the ads for things like Mighty Putty, Hairagami, and those plastic clips you put on your bra straps that guarantee to make you a cup size bigger and improve your posture. I’m also sick of seeing celebrities try to convince us that they lost 40 pounds eating Nutri System, or Jenny Craig food, or by drinking a bunch of Acai Berry Juice. Please, those people have a team of personal trainers and a kitchen staff to help them get skinny.

Now that I’ve figured out what caused the brain crud, it’s easy to fix. It’s not difficult AT ALL to turn off the TV once you realize you’ve fallen victim. If only all my unhealthy habits were cured as easy as picking up a remote and pressing “Off.”

Peace, out…

Susan

Three Words You’ll Only Hear at Jazzercise

in Family, Jazzercise, The Queen of Pain

Sing it, Susan!

This, from the Queen of Pain today, as we writhed on the floor in agony while of one of those American Idol winners belted out a poor imitation of Aretha’s Chain of Fools. I couldn’t tell you who was singing–I never watch that stuff. I think reality TV is a network conspiracy to make more money by not paying actors and writers. I digress.

To distract myself from the searing pain in my upper thighs–officially known at Jazzercise as the side butt–and because I love Aretha, I sang with enthusiasm. It’s a testament to how bad the leg routine was that no one got up and left.

The last time I sang in front of people was during our annual Labor Day Family Weekend in the Mountains. I was jamming around the cabin with my iPod, singing along with The Black Eyed Peas when most of my family bolted from their rocking chairs into the woods, where they fled the vicinity along with all creatures great and small.

Only my brother-in-law, who is a kind soul, and was particularly attached to his rocking chair (and possibly bidding on something on Ebay as his eyes were glued to his laptop) stayed behind. “You sound different with that thing in your ears,” he said. Who knew?

I have actually sang on stage, though it’s been a, ahh…ahem… a few years. In high school, they let me sing on stage in not one, but two musicals–Bye Bye Birdie, and L’il Abner, although, a case could be made that few of my classmates wanted to sing and dance on stage, making it hard to cast an entire musical, and parts therefore easy to land.

Nevertheless, I sing, not so much for the enjoyment of others, but because it makes me happy. They let me do that at Jazzercise, which is one more reason I go.

Peace, out…

Susan

Will Dance For Food

in Diets and Other Torture, Jazzercise, The Queen of Pain

Yesterday, I drug myself back to Jazzercise to get to work my third resolution of 2008 to be more fit. It’s nearly August, so I’m hoping the third time is the charm.

The Queen of Pain, who is normally on stage on Monday’s at 5:40, was AWOL. I was put out, of course. How dare she not be there on the third Monday I’ve shown up this year? But, Donna, the Singing Alien was teaching, and I like her class.

Now, as I have not been in a month, after the first two songs I was, naturally, telling myself that it would be FINE for me to cut out early since it was my first day back. But then, Donna put on the dancing music. I don’t even know what the song was, but it had a BEAT. And I remembered why I go.

I love to dance.

Well, that, and I have to do SOMETHING to burn off the Mega Moo Mocha Moo Lattes. I’ve decided to devise a point system. Something like, if I go to Jazzercise four days in a week, I can have Fettuccine Alfredo on Saturday. Or cheesecake. I’ll put up posters of my favorite foods on the refrigerator…hey, whatever works.

Peace, out…

Susan

The Singing Alien

in Diets and Other Torture, Jazzercise, The Singing Alien

Okay, today was an interesting day in the torture chamber, and I’ll tell y’all all about it just as soon as I get something off of my chest: there ought to be some agency that regulates people who manufacture scales. I have cut WAY back on what I’m eating–I’ve not had a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte since way before they closed the Dairy Queen in Greer. I’ve even cut back on wine–I only drink it only on weekends. And I’ve been exercising my derrierre off every day.

And today, that lying piece-of-junk scale said I’d gained a pound. Myra should have that thing calibrated more often. With all those starving people with aching muscles running around the place, somebody could snap. It might be me.

Anyway, today, I danced with Donna, who, previously I had thought of as “The Serene Alien.” She just has this peaceful aura about her that calms your nerves while your blood is pounding in your ears and your left arm is tingling. Today her serenity was taxed when there was a music malfunction. Now, with no music, many Jazzercise instructors would have immediately opted to switch to a body sculpt format, which would have meant getting to lie down on the mats sooner, but lots more spot torture.

Not Donna…in Donna’s class, the show does in fact go on. She SANG the songs to us, seamlessly inserting cues into the lyrics. It hepled that Donna actually CAN sing–she’s quite good. But the truly amazing thing–and the dead give away that’s she’s a high ranking alien–is that she never lost her breath nor glistened while dancing the highest intensity song in her set and singing the whole time.

Betty was Donna’s class manager today. Class managers log the victims into the computer and keep 911 on speed dial and such. They also assist in technical emergencies. Things really got interesting when Betty joined in to help Donna out with the singing. Don’t get me wrong–lots of us sing from time to time: with the music playing at rock-concert levels, who can tell that you couldn’t carry a tune in a Kate Spade purse? But, there was no music today…

Betty, bless her heart…the best thing I can say about Betty’s singing is that it’s better than mine. And I’ll say this: Betty didn’t sing long before Donna somehow fiddled with that sound system and got that sucker kick-started.

I’m going to get my aspirin. Then I’m going to Goggle the manufacturer of that sorry excuse for a scale…

Peace, out…

Susan

Postpartum Depression

in Jazzercise, The Queen of Pain, Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy

No, I haven’t been on maternity leave since last June. Y’all wouldn’t believe all the many valid (or at least plausible) reasons that I’ve fallen off the exercise wagon (and abandoned my blog) for nearly a year, so I’ll skip those, but none involved bearing children. Likely, it was due to the efforts of the notorious Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy (VFWC).

Anyway…when last I reported on my attempts to become svelte, the Queen of Pain (also know as Casey, the alien Jazzercise instructor), was undergoing a bizarre alien birthing ritual that required her to perch on her throne for months while others brought her offerings of peanut butter milkshakes.

A while back she delivered a gorgeous child that appears to be a human baby girl. We’ll see. The QOP has been back on stage significantly longer than I have been back on the dance floor. I drug my self back in about a month ago. This was a huge mistake.

Pregnancy, I have learned, turns your average alien aerobics instructor into a woman consumed with the need to burn calories…mine, yours, hers…all calories must be dealt with harshly. We are ALL suffering to make sure that the QOP (who is, naturally, skinnier than she was pre-pregnancy) looks good in her bikini this summer. She shoved a whole extra song into her set today, and every last one of them was so fast I swear it sounded like she was auctioning cattle while she cued.

I crawled out of there, drug myself home and started speed eating aspirin.

It’s going to be a long, painful road back…

Peace, out…

Susan

I Told Y’all This Would Happen

in Uncategorized

I drug myself out of rehab–the kind you go to for sports injuries–and back down Wade Hampton Boulevard yesterday and reported for torture. The Queen of Pain was AWOL, and in her place was Jenny. Y’all remember a while back I told you about Jenny-the-cutest-little-thing?

I knew it was only a matter of time before sweet Jenny morphed into alien Jenny. She has all the right equipment–she’s beautiful, skinny, and can dance like a maniac for an hour without breaking a sweat. And, of course, she was trained by the QOP herself.

Alien Jenny is the closest thing to a Casey-clone that we’ll likely ever see. She put a hurting on me that the QOP would have been proud of. I was into the blue (the section of the exertion chart that’s not actually a part of the chart, but the top border) by song number two. The thing about Jenny is that, while definitely an alien, she’s still sweet. The sweetness oozes out of her while she’s killing you–it’s bizarre, actually. It’s like she’s Casey before somebody gave her the intravenous sarcasm–which, by the way is one of the things I like best about Casey–I don’t mean that ugly. She makes me laugh. And trust me, when you are being bent, folded and mutilated by Casey, you need something to laugh about.

Yesterday, as I was sweating like a Charleston roofer in August, hair all in my eyes, mouth hanging open, face squinched in agony as Jenny pushed me toward a cardiac episode, she smiled serenely, looked out across the class and said, “You look awesome!”I can only guess the rest of them must have looked better than me. I still don’t know how she said it with a straight face with me right there on the front row.

Hmmm… Maybe…maybe sweet Jenny isn’t as sweet as she looks. Maybe she’s just as sarcastic as Casey, but sneaky about it. You know, like those women whose mouths won’t melt butter when they say, “How niiiiice,” but you know what they really mean is something no Southern lady would ever say out loud.

She bears watching, our Jenny. She may be a new breed of alien.

I’ve gotten two classes in this week…I’m doing better. Maybe in the morning I’ll drop in on the caring and nurturing one. If I’m out of traction.

Peace, out…

Susan

It’s Whining Time Again

in Uncategorized

Y’all knew I’d only make it to Jazzercise one day last week, right? I mean, it was my first week back, and there’s nothing that will wreck your exercise program faster than over-doing the first week. Besides, I pulled something in my left leg last Monday, and did the sensible thing and let it heal.

So, in return, this Monday, the Queen of Pain pulled all my muscles, just to let me know she cares. A while back, I posted a list of the top 10 things you DO NOT want to hear a Jazzercise instructor say. I’d like to add # 11… “You ready for something new?”

This inquiry is normally delivered with an angelic smile and a sarcastic tone. It is code for, “You think that hurts? Try this…” Today it preceded the twenty-fifth time we did inner-thigh work in Casey’s set. Inner thighs and glutes… those were the muscles d’jour. We’re getting ready for short season–the most painful time of year. Colder climates look appealing to me right now. Places where they never wear shorts, like, I don’t know…maybe Antarctica.

I was already in pain before I got to the car–a new record. Usually, it takes at least the drive home for the hurting to commence. By the time I drug myself out of the car and into the condo, I was walking like I’d gone bull riding, and been thrown and trampled. I have hitches in my get-along that will not go away. I’ve had a hot shower, aspirin and bio-freeze–the icy-hot stuff the chiropractor gave Jim when he hurt his back. I sprayed on half a bottle and it didn’t help a bit. I’m considering drinking the stuff

I’m going to look for the Tylenol. You can take that on top of aspirin, right?

Peace, out…

Susan

Street Walking Ain’t What It’s Cracked Up to Be

in Uncategorized

Many moons ago, I started this blog–in theory–as a way to hold myself accountable for things I should be doing, but didn’t always get around to. Like exercise, eating right, staying on my writing schedule and living right. Lately it seems like I’m doing everything except those things, ergo, no blogs.

My intentions were good, as intentions often are. When I resigned my spot on the front row at Jazzercise, I told Myra (the caring and nurturing one) and Casey (the Queen of Pain) that I lived too far away now ( 20 minutes down Wade Hampton Boulevard!), and would be taking exercise along the streets of beautiful downtown Greenville. I was going to become a Street Walker.

I envisioned getting up each morning to the sounds of an awakening small city, donning one of my newly-purchased, chic, walking outfits, and power-walking past the shops, cheerily waving at shopkeepers as they opened for business. On my way back to my West End condo, I would stop by Starbucks, order a Venti Nonfat Mocha, and read the New York Times. Then, batteries fully charged, I would go home and words would pour out of me into the computer. It was an artsy vision.

Reality is that I haven’t bought those chic walking outfits, because I refuse to buy clothes a size larger, and I’ve expanded my horizons. When we first moved in, the morning temperatures were literally freezing, and the wind howled down Main Street. Most shops don’t open until ten, so the only folks to wave at were the ones opening the bakery-cafe type establishments that harbored forbidden treats. And along with that Venti Nonfat Mocha, Starbucks was pushing scones, muffins, and lemon pound cake. Also, the hilly nature of our Main Street (not as noticeable when you drive down it) gave me shin splints. And walking, unlike Jazzercise, is lonely. Words have not gushed into my computer.

On Monday, I hauled my sorry, expanded derriere down Wade Hampton Boulevard and reenlisted. Not much has changed…the classes are a little more crowded (it’s spring–bathing suit season looms), and the Queen of Pain, courtesy of her 22-week, completely unnoticeable-unless-you-know pregnancy has graduated to her very first C-cup.

She’s still an alien. But I sure was happy to see her…and Wendy, Connie, Betty, Sarina, Allison and all the other familiar faces.

I should be dancing.

Peace, out…

Susan

An Experiment in Travelcise

in Uncategorized

I know I rag on Casey, The Queen of Pain, a lot. But she really is sweet. Except when she’s causing you intense pain by insisting that you do things with your body that The Good Lord never intended–just so y’all know, the laws of physics dictate that I cannot put weights on this chest and do sit-ups. Or when she has the microphone and thinks of some bit of entertaining sarcasm at your expense. Frequently, the pain and the sarcasm are delivered simultaneously. But I digress…she’s sweet, really.

Like just this morning, knowing that I am in a hotel room somewhere in rural Alabama and thus unable to report for torture, she emailed me a link to download Jazzercise podcasts, especially designed for the traveler. Frequently I have lamented to Her Royal Agony that I need a DVD of her toture sessions–I mean class–so I can Jazzercise while traveling. I knew it wouldn’t be Casey (or Myra, Diane, Wendy, Julie, Donna, Jenny or Michelle) on the podcast, but I thought, “Hey, why not give it a try?” So I did.

The first obstacle was an educational one. I am (while not computer illiterate) somewhat behind the times. In my world, podcast = ipod = Apple computers. I have an IBM Thinkpad. So, I followed the link the QOP sent, went to the Jazzercise site, clicked iTunes, and got the scoop. I know, I’m behind.

It took me a while to download and install the software. Software that is Apple derivative has a somewhat different look and feel than that which is IBM derivative. Anyway, I got that done, went back to the Jazzercise site and downloaded the five available podcasts. So far so good.

It wasn’t intuitively obvious how to start this stuff up after it was loaded, but finally, in a box so small I had to get out a magnifying glass, Shanna Missett Nelson, daughter of Jazzercise founder Judi Sheppard Missett, appeared. Now Shanna, like her mother, looks like your stereotypical aerobics instructor. Perfect, right down to the hair and makeup. At least that’s how she looked in the little box with my magnifying glass. I tried making the box bigger, but every time I tried, the whole shebang locked up and I had to start Shanna over.

For authenticity, they taped these podcasts in actual hotel rooms. Shanna demonstrated the first exercise, using a hotel room chair. Now, her chair was not exactly like mine: mine has wheels–it’s a desk chair. But I thought maybe it would work. This was foolishness.

I sat on the edge of the chair, just like Shanna demonstrated, and put my hands on the seat. But just as I lowered my VOLUPTUOUS derriere for the first of ten reps of some strange variation of a pushup, the chair rolled backwards, slamming against the wall, and I landed with a loud thud on the floor. The two ladies who were cleaning the room next door came running. They knocked on the door, yelling “housekeeping!” Evidently they couldn’t hear me calling back that everything was okay–or didn’t understand what I was saying–so they used the pass key and came on in.

By this time, I had picked myself up and was limping towards the door. They looked around the room a little curiously, and asked (I’m guessing here) if I was all right. Their English was limited to the words”housekeeping”, “towels”, and “have a nice day.” My Spanish is limited to “taco,” “burrito,” and “chimichanga.” I pointed to Shanna in her little box, but they weren’t curious enough to come see what was on my computer screen. Who knows what they’ve seen on other laptops left open in guest rooms. They backed out of the room, no doubt wondering what in the name of common sense I’d been doing.

Okay, so my first session of Travelcise didn’t go smoothly. But as soon as I purchase a tube (looks like a jump rope, only made out of rubber) –which I need for the next exercise in the set, I’ll give it another go. Meanwhile, maybe I’ll hop on that treadmill downstairs. After I finish editing a short story and ice my bruise. Maybe.

Peace, out…

Myra’s School of Pole Dancing

in Uncategorized

Myra’s getting ready to run another promotion. One of those, “Haul your friends in here and blackmail them with whatever you’ve got on them until they sign up and we’ll give you a T-shirt” deals. My friends are either already dancing their little hearts out, have been and refuse to go back (for various ridiculous excuses like ‘the surgeon told me I can’t yet’), or they live out of town. I won’t be getting that T-shirt (or whatever), and I suspect that most of the current students face the same dilemma.

But I have a better idea for Myra. Change the name to reflect what we really do in there. Women go to Jazzercise to let their hair down and dance. We shimmy, we bump, we grind… we shake what our mamma’s gave us. And we take these talents home with us. Our husbands are lucky men. If the sign on the door said “Myra’s School of Pole Dancing,” the men of Greer/Taylors would be signing their wives up in droves.

Now, granted, their may be some fallout from local churches. Greer/Taylors is definitely a conservative area. And, as I have said before, Myra is a Christian woman, as is… well, everybody that I personally know. So the sign would have to reflect the fact that we use our skills only for the entertainment of the men we are legally married to. Maybe, “Myra’s Christian School of Pole Dancing and Marital Therapy.”

We might need to play with it a little bit. Y’all let me know what you think.

Note: In response to several questions, I would like to add that at no time do we remove any of our clothes while Jazzercising. Well, except for the occasional sweatshirt. This is completely wholesome pole dancing.

Peace, out…

Deadlines, Commitments and Ailments, Oh My!

in Uncategorized

I confess…I have been very, very slack in the exercise department for the last two weeks. My VOLUPTUOUS figure has not graced the dance floor all week this week, and last week was spotty at best. But, as always, I have many reasons (not to be confused with excuses).

First off, I had several deadlines for submitting stories that came all at once. And, since I am trying, oh so very hard to become a PAID writer, I must submit. I mean, the blog is great, but it well, doesn’t pay much, and most agents and editors like to see publishing credits before they’ll take on your novel. So, there were deadlines…

And, there were commitments. And, by this, I don’t mean that I was committed to a mental facility, although, one could make an argument that such a thing is in order. Thus far I have successfully avoided the men in white coats. But I have had other things on my to-do list, like fluff the house umpteen times so a realtor could show it. Did I mention our house was on the market? I can’t remember. Anyway, here’s how this works: They call, I clean and try to make the house look like no one lives here, then I have to leave and go elsewhere for an hour or two so they can show it. It’s really fun when I spend several hours getting the house ready, drive around for a couple of hours–because, after all that house cleaning, I’m sweaty and icky and not fit to go in anywhere–and then they don’t show up.

Under the ailments category, somehow week before last I did something to my knee, my right foot and my neck. Probably this was due to the transition from vacation to trying to make up for vacation a little too abruptly. Perhaps I should have eased back into Jazzercise more gradually. Bodysculpt followed by a regular Jazzercise class two days week before last was the culprit, I think. My body was not ready to be sculpted.

Anyway, I didn’t sleep hardly at all last night, and I when I did, I had a horrible nightmare. I was in surgery (some chest or abdominal thing was being cut on). I got straight up from the operating table and went to Jazzercise in my hospital gown. The Queen of Pain was there, and she cracked on me severely because I had missed a class while being cut open and stitched back shut. She was not impressed by my REASON. I slunk out of there in shame. I’m not sure what to make of the dream, but I think my body is going in to dance withdrawal. I’ve got to get back on track. I’m thinking the score right now is Demon Diane 103, Susan 4.

But today, there’s this deadline…

Peace, out…

The Mother of All Stupidities

in Uncategorized

Let the record reflect that I went to Jazzercise four days last week, and took two body sculpt classes. That’s six classes total. This week, so far, I’ve been to three (Jazzercise on Monday, Body Sculpt and Jazzercise yesterday). Today, it’s raining, and, while I probably won’t melt, why take chances? Besides, I have work to catch up on.

The new session of Personal Torture started Monday, and I am somewhat concerned about my personal safety, as I previously committed to The Queen of Pain that I would re-enlist. However, having wisely spent all my pocket money on Bushwackers at The Beach Bar, day trips to the British Virgin Islands, and over-indulgent meals while in St. John, I have no money left for Personal Torture. Sad but true. I subscribe with wild abandon to the “sha-la-la-la-la-la live for today” philosophy.

Anyway, to make up for the lack of torture in my life, I took a sucker bet. Demon Diane bet me she could get in fifty classes before me, starting on Sunday. She stipulated that she wouldn’t count the classes she taught or her Personal Torture, and told me she was taking two weeks of vacation. Sounds like a no brainer, right? I mean, how could she possibly win that? So I took the bet.

What I did not stop to consider (and here’s where the stupidity comes in) is that Demon Diane has an obsessive compulsive exercise disorder. She’s a size four, who (the last time I checked) was going to Jenny Craig). She exercises in her sleep. She will crush me. As The Queen of Pain herself wisely inquired, “What was I thinking?”

I’m up to 3 classes. I’ll bet she’s at about ten…no, wait, if she took every class but hers, she’s probably at eleven by now…

Peace, out…

Four Weeks With No Dancing Makes One’s Clothes Tight

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Y’all may have noticed that I haven’t mentioned Jazzercise in a while. That’s because I haven’t been in a while. This was brought to my attention this morning. Now, I did drag my VOLUPTUOUS self (I only gained 4 pounds on vacation) out of the bed this morning and haul it in to Body Sculpt (with Myra, The Caring and Nurturing Alien) followed by a Jazzercise class with Wendy(who is fast morphing into an alien–that girl is getting so skinny even her chest is flattening out). I thought I had gotten away clean–having been AWOL for 4 weeks, I was not eager to encounter Casey, The Queen of Pain.

But, as I was leaving the building, sweating…I mean glistening brightly in the sunlight, here she came across the parking lot like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven. The look on her face would have stopped a lava flow. It was cold…cold. We’re talking cold as the strawberries in the very bottom of your grandmamma’s deep freeze since three summers ago. And Casey is much more intimidating in street clothes and makeup than she is than in workout clothes, bare-faced, with her hair uncombed (which is saying a lot).

Fortunately, Carol and Alyce were standing there with me, so I was not dismembered and buried behind the building. Also, I had really, really good REASONS. (Family member undergoing surgery, vacation, vacation and…umm…brief vacation recovery followed by more vacation–Labor Day weekend is always family weekend in a mountain cabin.)

The Queen of Pain was not particularly impressed with any of the exercising I did while on vacation–snorkeling, hiking, and beach lolling. And I even told her how I used my Jazzercise technique of singing to get air in my lungs as I hiked up from Salt Pond Bay where we’d been snorkeling. (I sang Bye, Bye Miss American Pie all the way up that hill, and Jim still let me in the Jeep and gave me a ride back to town.) My sister informs me that, at the gates of Heaven, two people will get to go to the front of the line and go straight in: my Aunt Ruth’s maid, Francina–this is a whole nuther story–and Jim. I’m not sure what to make of that considering Francina’s quality of life.

Anyway, Casey and I have reached an agreement: She will let me live, and I will not be missing any more classes between now and Christmas.

Y’all hold me to that…

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